An Uncommon Reaction
by timeywimeyspaceywacey
Summary: Galmar Stone-Fist had always assumed that when he finally fell in love, it would be with a strong, axe-wielding, battle-minded warrior of a woman. Solveig was anything but that. OFC/Galmar Stone-Fist. OC is NOT the Dragonborn. Follows Dark Brotherhood and the Civil War. *ON INDEFINITE HIATUS*
1. As Dangerous as Dartwings

Galmar Stone-Fist wearily rubbed his temples before picking up the small, crumpled missive that had arrived earlier that day at dawn. A breathless, bloodied scout had stumbled up and into the Palace of the Kings, handing Galmar a small note written by one of the Stormcloaks commanding officers in great haste. Yrsarald Thrice-Pierced, a fellow high-ranking officer stood nearby, silently waiting as the General read the note.

"It appears that Arrald Frozen-Heart's wife was captured by the Imperial Legate located in Hjaalmarch, and were then taken to Castle Dour in Solitude," he said, his low, gruff gravelly voice making his displeasure clear.

Yrsarald raised an eyebrow, leaning against the cold, stone wall of the war room. "Did the message say why?"

"Why do you think?" Galmar grumbled, tossing the missive aside. "No doubt to see if they know anything, given that their son is an officer, bound to have plenty of information that those damned godless Imperials need. It would appear that our families are no longer safe, and those weak milk-drinkers are attacking and capturing women and children."

The younger Nord's face went white, his stomach churned, and he swallowed hard as he thought of his sister, who lived alone in the pine forests of Falkreath, a hold that was under Imperial control. He clenched his jaw tightly, feeling as though he was going retch, staring at Galmar with unsettling silence, who looked up at him with an inquisitive gaze. "Yes? What is it?"

Yrsarald took a deep breath before moving to sit down across from the older, greying Nord, voice shaking once he finally spoke. "I…I have a sister. She lives alone in Falkreath, out in the forests. She can take care of herself well enough, but now…I'd like to take some leave, see if she's alright and try to bring her back here with me."

"I didn't know you had a sister. Never mentioned her," Galmar replied, looking up at him in surprise. "I understand, though. We need to protect those we love, fight for them. Do what needs to be done, and then make haste back here to Windhelm. I'm guessing you'll want to take that man of yours with you? I'll send him up to your chambers. Oh, and bring her with you; Talos knows we need more true sons and daughters of Skyrim to join our cause. You'd best get moving."

* * *

Yrsarald packed quickly for his journey, hastily tossing what he deemed necessary into a large, worn satchel. He removed his armor quickly, placing it on the mannequin in his bedroom, choosing to leave the very obvious garb of a Stormcloak behind while he journeyed into Imperial territory. Flinging the doors of his wardrobe wide open, he dug through the messy pile of clothing and mismatched armor, ignoring the fact that he was frantically moving about his room entirely in the nude.

"Well, if I had known that this is what was going to be waiting for me, I would have come even faster," a low, accented voice behind him joked.

He whipped around quickly, letting out a small laugh when he saw his lover standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Ralof! Took you damn long enough. Get over here, you need to pack too. Please, hurry," he insisted, gesturing at the blond man wildly.

The smile quickly disappeared from Ralof's face, shortly replaced by a concerned frown. "Yrsarald, what's wrong?" he asked, crossing the room towards him, taking one of Yrsarald's hands in his.

"I-it's Solveig," he said, quaking words causing Ralof to gasp.

"Is she alright? What's wrong? Did something happen?" the blond asked, rapidly firing a series of concerned questions at him.

"No, she's fine—well, at least, I think she is. Galmar got news from another officer that his wife had been captured by Imperials, taken to Castle Dour, where they've done gods knows what to her."

Ralof grabbed another knapsack, beginning to pack up some of his own belongings. "You're worried that the same thing might happen to her."

"Aye, I am," Yrsarald groaned as he slumped into a nearby chair, running his hands down over his face, wishing that Falkreath hold was closer. "I'm not overreacting, am I?"

Ralof shook his head, leaning over to give him a short, quick kiss. "No, you're not," he replied, slinging his knapsack over his shoulder. "I'll go ready some horses; that would probably be the fastest, easiest way to get there. Meet me down by the stables."

* * *

After making haste to the southwestern hold of Falkreath, Yrsarald and Ralof had completed the journey in a little over two days, moving faster than they had anticipated due to infrequent stops for rest and leaving the main, cobbled path to take shortcuts.

The heady scent of pine drifted down towards them, brought down from the thick forest covering by the misty, drizzling rain that was currently pelting the thick, heavy furs that they had draped over their heads to act as a barrier between themselves and the worsening rainstorm. Yrsarald guided his horse off of the small, beaten path towards the glade where his sister had made her home, lightly digging his heels into the animal's side, urging it to quicken its pace once he realized they were drawing closer. He lifted the hood of his fur cloak, blinking away the drops of water that had dripped off, splattering his eyes. A small, neat wooden hut was mere yards away from them, a small greenhouse and garden crudely fenced off from the forest along with the tiny house. There were a few tiny windows revealing the soft light flickering inside, with thick, grey smoke lazily puffing out of the lopsided stone chimney. Climbing down, he led his horse over to a nearby pine, wrapping the reins around the sturdy branch, waiting as Ralof followed suit.

The thick mud squelched underneath their feet as they quietly, slowly approached the dwelling, Ralof silently cursing when he accidentally jostled one of the many bone chimes hanging around the property, silently mouthing an apology to Yrsarald, waiting for that infernal clinking to stop. They froze as the door to the hut opened, and a small, shadowy figure stepped out, tiny flames growing in their palm, licking at the evening air.

"Hello?" an airy, husky female voice called out, seemingly unafraid and nonplussed by the potential intruders. "Is anyone there?"

"Solveig, it's just Yrsarald and Ralof!" he called out to his sister, not wishing to make the prior mistake of surprising her with an unannounced approach. He still had some of those burns.

The flames in the woman's hands were replaced by a simple magelight spell, and she bounded forward towards them enthusiastically. "Brother, Ralof!" she said with a laugh as her brother enveloped her in a large, sweeping hug. "What are you doing here? Not that I'm displeased to see you…" she trailed off, stepping back to look at both of them with concern.

"Solveig, we need to talk," Yrsarald said, sternness replacing the prior worry his voice had been laden with. "Can we go inside? I'd like to get out of this rain, and I'm sure Ralof would as well."

She nodded, beckoning them to follow her inside, only pausing to make sure that they had wiped the muck off their feet before stepping into her home. Once indoors, Yrsarald let out a long, melodramatic sigh as he took in his surroundings. Solveig had always been spacey, scatter-brained, and disorganized, but it had only gotten worse. He ducked to evade the strands of dried elves ears and frost mirriam hanging from the ceiling, and Ralof tried to avoid sending some of the large stacks of books toppling, failing when his chubby, rotund stomach brushed against a stack. Both of the men stood close together in the small, open space in the room, wondering where in Oblivion they could possibly sit.

"I'm sorry, Sol," Ralof apologized; giving her a small, cheeky smile as he gestured to the items he had sent tumbling into a messy pile.

"It's fine," she responded with a smile, sweeping books, rolls of paper, and various ingredients off of a bench, dumping them on the floor next to it, creating a small, clear space on the wooden structure. "I'm sorry there isn't much room, but you can sit here."

The two large men sat down, squeezing their large muscular bodies into the less than ample space she had made for them. She dragged a chair away from the cluttered table it had been at, pulling it to face them before sitting down. "Yrsarald, it's good to see you again. What did you need to talk about?"

Yrsarald shifted uncomfortably, taking the time to inspect his sister. Solveig was only a few years younger than him, having seen thirty winters in her lifetime. Her hazel eyes watched him patiently, and after reaching up to twirl on of the loose, messy, blonde braids she wore down either side of her head, she reached up to scratch the cheek of her pale, smiling, freckled face. She wore the mage robes she had obtained during her decade at the college, and he had to resist the frequent urge he had whenever he saw her to stuff some sturdy armor and a hefty war axe into her hands.

"You weren't worried again, were you?" she finally asked, brushing away a stray strand of hair that had fallen into her eyes. "Were you?"

"I'll admit, I was," Yrsarald replied with a sigh, reaching out to take one of her hands.

Solveig frowned, standing up. "I don't see why. I can take care of myself just fine. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a potion I need to get back to," she replied, deftly weaving through the stacks of objects that were messily scattered all over her home, leaning over the alchemy table once she had arrived at her destination.

"I know, I have no qualms that you would be able to handle yourself in a fight," he said, placing a calloused hand on his sister shoulder after he followed her.

"No one bothers me out here. Not even the bandits do, not anymore."

He reached up one hand to scratch at his neck, letting out a small groan, realizing what the absence of bothersome brigands meant. Every time he visited the nearby hold capital, he had heard plenty of unpleasant rumors about his sister, some more interesting and horrifying than others. Some said that she was a cannibal, devouring any unlucky traveler who happened to stumble across her out in the woods, and more recently, that gossiping woman Narri at the Dead Man's Drink had been running her mouth, telling everyone that Solveig was a witch, preparing and training vehemently for the day she would become a hagraven. In actuality, Solveig was about as evil or dangerous as a dartwing.

_Fantastic, now even bandits are terrified of her_, he thought wryly to himself, watching her as she ground up blisterwort in her mortar and pestle, unsure if he should be pleased about the rumors that had likely helped keep her safe. He had learned quickly that their kind, the Nords, didn't trust magic, and the fact that she had become a powerful mage during her ten years of study at the College of Winterhold, coupled with her odd, reclusive personality had only helped his countrymen's imaginations run wild.

"Sol, this is much more serious than bandits. A few days ago, the wife of one of my fellow officers was kidnapped, captured, and taken to Castle Dour."

"That's terrible. Let me guess, you think that Imperials are going to come along any day now, and do the same to me."

"Yes, it is a possibility. I want you to come with me to Windhelm. You'd be safer there, and you can finally join the Stormcloaks."

"Harrumph," she grumbled, twisting a cork into the concoction she had just created. "I'm not worried about any Imperials. They won't bother me, at least they won't if they know what's good for them. I'm perfectly fine here, and I don't care."

_Of course she doesn't care. If it isn't a spell tome or some damned piece of dragon's tongue, of course it won't matter._

"Besides," she continued; her voice a low murmur. "I don't really think I'd be welcomed by the Stormcloaks."

"What makes you think you wouldn't be welcome?" he asked, genuinely perplexed by her statement.

Solveig turned towards him with a grimace, setting aside the potion. "I've heard what people in Falkreath say about me, that I'm strange, insane, and a dangerous menace. What makes you think that large groups of the same, like-minded people are going to treat me any differently? I'm fine out here," she repeated vehemently. "Yrsarald, I'm done listening to this paranoid nonsense."

Yrsarald opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the sound of the bone chimes hanging outside clinking together. He turned to watch Ralof stand and peek through the cloudy window, waiting for him to finish his inspection.

"I see something out there," he called to them nervously, reaching for the warhammer on his back.

"Probably just bandits," Solveig replied with a disinterested shrug, turning back to her work. "It's likely new ones in the hold that haven't learned that I'm a madwoman who will eat their hearts."

"Come on, we're going out to check," her brother insisted, pulling her along after him, past the clutter, through the doorway, reaching for the sword at his side.

Ralof had already engaged with one of the intruders, swinging the heavy, steel weapon towards the person's head after avoiding one of their sword thrusts. There was a sickening sound of crunching bone as his weapon met its mark, and he pulled the weapon out, waiting for Yrsarald and Solveig to join him.

He motioned to the dead soldier on the moist earth before him, and their eyes stopped at the sight of the man's simple, light Imperial armor.

"Looks like a scout," Ralof said quietly, looking up to watch their reactions. "Probably was going to head back to the Legate in Falkreath with a report."

Yrsarald turned toward his sister, resisting the growing urge to grab her by her shoulders and shake her, telling her that he knew this was going to happen, before throwing her over his shoulder and dragging her to Eastmarch by force. Instead, he sighed and placed one hand on her forearm before speaking gently.

"Sol, will you listen to this paranoid nonsense now?"

* * *

**Galmar has always been one of my favorite characters, and I figured that he needed some lovin' too! Hope everyone enjoys. :)**


	2. Cutting Out Hearts

Solveig continued to stare at the body of the deceased Imperial lying on the ground before her, ignoring her brother's exclamations, finally drawing her dagger and kneeling down. She calmly sliced away the man's thin armor, pushing aside the leather before she placed her blade on the bare skin below.

"What in the name of Talos are you doing?" Yrsarald gasped, grabbing at her. "We need to go now, what are you doing?"

She looked up at him, giving an airy sigh of exasperation. "Brother, what does it look like I'm doing? I'm taking his heart. Do you know how difficult it is to get a human heart?" Solveig continued gleefully, thinking of all of the potions she could make with one heart. "It is an incredibly rare ingredient, you know…"

Her brother snatched the dagger out of her hands, shaking his head incredulously, feeling incredibly queasy and uneasy as he imagined his sister ripping out the man's organ, before raising it into the air, cackling. "Sol, we don't have time for this," he said, pulling her up to her feet, beginning to drag her towards the small shack. "We need to pack up and go, now."

"But…my heart," she trailed off listlessly, looking back sadly over her shoulder towards the dead scout.

"Don't worry, join the Stormcloaks, and you'll have plenty of opportunities to take Imperial hearts," Ralof joked, earning a glare from his lover, who silently mouthed a simple sentence at him: _Don't encourage her._

"Perhaps," Yrsarald said, grabbing a large satchel off the top of a shelf, shoving it into her hands. "Come to Windhelm, and I can guarantee you a position as an alchemist for the Stormcloaks," he lied, hoping that both Galmar and Ulfric would approve of the idea. Even if he did manage to convince them, she would still have to prove her worth and take the official oath.

"Truly?" she asked, eyes widening excitedly.

"Truly. Imagine it now, a laboratory much larger than this, and all of the ingredients you need at your fingertips. How does that sound to you?"

"That sounds _wonderful_," she breathed, clasping her hands together. "You could really make that happen? And…and people won't treat me like they do here in Falkreath? It'll be better?"

"I can, and it will. They will love you," he said, hoping that if he said those words enough they would come true, taking care to ignore Ralof's raised eyebrows and piercing stare. "Now, let's get you packed up."

* * *

Filling a relatively small satchel with a meager amount of belongings was something that Yrsarald had been hoping would be rather quick and simple, but he had failed to take into account the fact that the person packing things was Solveig.

Over two hours had passed, and she had been sifting through all of her heaps and piles of junk, having the most difficult time deciding what to take. Once they would think that she had finally made up her mind, she would empty the knapsack in frustration and start anew.

"Sol, you need to decide, _now_," he groaned, leaning his head against Ralof's shoulder. "Or I'm going to pick out everything for you, and you'll likely be displeased."

"I can't just leave everything behind!" she exclaimed, wringing her hands. "How am I supposed to take everything with me?"

"Everything? You can't take everything with you, so decide, and make it fast. Do you have any armor? Bring that, too."

She set down the knapsack by him with a sigh. "I think…I think that will do," she said, looking around her small home sadly. "I have some armor, let me get it."

Solveig disappeared into a small storage room in her house, and after a few minutes of digging around and sending various items tumbling and crashing to the floor, she returned with a set of light armor in her hands, which she then held out to Yrsarald and Ralof. "Here, this is what I have. It's nice, isn't it?"

The men looked at each other, and her brother groaned as he thought of what Ulfric and Galmar's reaction would be if she came marching into the Palace of the Kings in very bright, shiny Elven armor that was favored by the Thalmor. "Never mind, Sol. Just…never mind. Where did you come by that, anyway?"

She shrugged, stuffing the armor into the knapsack before slipping on the boots and gauntlets that went along with it. "I found it. There's a shrine to Talos up off the main road that runs along Lake Illinalta, and I think there was some kind of massacre there by, oh, what are they called? Thalmor, that's right. Thalmor."

Yrsarald's stomach churned at the thought of Imperials _and_ Thalmor skulking around Falkreath, and he rapidly made his way over to the door, motioning for her to head outside. "I'd say it is most certainly time to leave."

Ralof and Solveig followed him outside, adjusting their packs as they trudged through the mud and wretched weather. She stopped briefly to turn and look back at her home longingly; hoping that when the war was over, the many spells and wards she had used to protect it would ensure that it was standing when she returned.

"I hope this is worth it," she sighed to herself, casting a simple candlelight spell to light the dark path before them.

* * *

It had only taken them a few days to reach Eastmarch, and their journey would have been significantly shorter if Solveig hadn't kept forcing them to make frequent stops to gather ingredients that she spied along the road.

Yrsarald was deep in thought, watching Ralof and his sister walk in front of him, chatting amicably with each other. He gnawed his lip anxiously, hoping that his comrades didn't react poorly to her presence. She was friendly and well-liked by those who had taken the time to get to know her, but most were put off by her strange, reclusive and spacey personality, and her talk of magic and poisons. He had been nervous the first time he introduced Ralof to her, but they had gotten along fantastically ever since, likely due to the fact that Ralof was a good deal more easygoing and open-minded about a number of things.

"Septim for your thoughts?" Ralof asked, jerking Yrsarald out of his stupor. "You've been rather quiet now."

"Just thinking," Yrsarald replied with a shrug.

"It'll be fine," the blond replied, reaching over to link his hand through Yrsarald's. "Although…I am curious as to what will happen if you don't manage to get her that alchemist position that you promised. You know, the entire reason she agreed to come out here to Windhelm."

"I…I don't know either. I suppose I can cross that bridge when we get there," he replied, honestly more worried about how she would be accepted. "I don't see why she wouldn't get it, though. Ulfric has been after Wuunferth to get more potions made, so I'm sure he'd be more than happy to find someone who could handle it. Now, where's Solveig gotten off to? We're almost there, I hope she hasn't chosen now to wander off and get lost in the wilderness. There are bears out there…"

Ralof laughed. "You worry too damn much."

"About Solveig?"

"No, about everything."

* * *

Yrsarald pushed open the heavy, iron door to the Palace of the Kings, holding it open for Solveig, motioning for her to step inside. After they were both safely indoors away from the nasty snowstorm outside, he leaned over to her as they stomped the snow and ice from their boots.

"Now, you'll be meeting with General Stone-Fist, he's the one that handles all of the new recruits for the Stormcloaks," he whispered in her ear as he took her arm and walked her towards a small room off to the side of the main hall. "However, I need to have a word with the Jarl first, so I'll meet you there in a bit. Will you be alright?"

"I'll be fine," she sighed with a weary smile, waiting for him to release her from his embrace. He set off towards another set of doors, and she smoothed down her orange adept robes, and tried to stick a few stray hairs stick out of her braids back in place, giving up after a few seconds. She stepped into the room, searching the room quietly, eyes falling on a massive, mountain of a Nord leaning over the table in the war room. He was wearing the same armor that she had seen Yrsarald in many times over the years, except he had added a helm made out of a bear head to the entire ensemble. She continued watching him, taking note of his fierce, grey-blue eyes, and the many lines and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. After a few moments, Solveig cleared her throat, waiting for the man to look up.

* * *

Galmar looked up, surprised to see an attractive young woman in mage's robes awkwardly milling about the entrance to the war room. There was no doubt in his mind that she was lost, and she was likely here to buy spell tomes or some other such magical nonsense from Ulfric's court wizard. "You're in the wrong place, little mage," he muttered gruffly, turning his attention back to the map stretched out on the table before him, tugging on his knotted, grey-blond beard. "Wuunferth's study is going to be down the first hall to your left, all the way at the end."

The mage opened her mouth to reply to him, but was interrupted as a very excited, enthused Yrsarald came bursting into the room, and threw an arm about her shoulder. "Ah, Solveig! I see you've met the General! Galmar, this is my sister, the one I was telling you about," he added, looking back and forth between the two of them. The woman called Solveig gave him a small, friendly smile, but Galmar only frowned back at her.

Galmar scowled, wondering if this was Yrsarald's idea of an awful joke; the man knew how he felt about mages. "I thought," he began, his gravelly voice full of irritation, as he rolled up the map. "That I told you we needed _true_ sons and daughters of Skyrim."

Her face fell, and she fixed Galmar with a smoldering, unsettling glare before she turned to her brother. "I knew you this was a bad idea; I knew it wouldn't be better here. I'm leaving," she murmured sadly before quickly turning on her heel, exiting the room.

Yrsarald sighed and furrowed his brow. "You shouldn't have said that."

"Magic users are just as weak as elves. We've no use for that kind here."

The younger man glared, his lips tightening into a thin, grim scowl. "Take care what you say about my sister, General. First off, even though she's a mage, that doesn't mean she's useless or weak. She's neither of those things. Second, she's an alchemist, a damned good one, and even the Jarl agrees with me that it would be good to have her around, given that Nurelion doesn't care to help his cause and Wuunferth can't handle everything on his own. You should apologize to her."

Galmar's head snapped up. "You would do well to remember to respect your commanding officer. I'll do no such thing."

Yrsarald shrugged. "Perhaps I was wrong about you then, Galmar. I always thought you lacked the intolerance and narrow-mindedness that makes your brother so unbearable. Forgive me, I suppose I was mistaken."

The older Nord gave a loud, exasperated sigh at the mention of his brother Rolff, someone that he had worked hard to distance himself from over the past few years. "Fine," he grumbled, following Yrsarald out of the room in search of the young woman he had just offended.

* * *

Solveig had stormed off, leaving the palace as soon as she could, but she had returned quickly when she realized that the snowstorm outside had picked up, and she had no idea how to find her way back to the inn. The two men found her sitting at the long table in the main hall with her arms crossing, glaring at them as they approached. They awkwardly stood nearby her, with everyone waiting for Galmar to speak.

"Yes, did you need something?" she finally asked, her voice taking on its prior calm, collected tone.

Diffusing uncomfortable tension that was brought about by his insensitivity and no-nonsense attitude by apologizing wasn't something he had much experience with, and he made strange grumbling and growling sounds as he tried to find words that wouldn't be too emasculating. Solveig looked up at him, taking in his strange noises and the armor that she thought was nothing more than a silly little bear outfit, and she burst into laughter.

"Just…whatever you were going to say, don't even bother. I'm guessing you were going to try and apologize, because my brother told you that you should," she continued, leaving both of them incredibly confused, trying to figure out what had brought on a seemingly random bout of giggles. "Honestly, it doesn't even matter. I suppose I should be used to that kind of reaction now."

"Well, then! Glad that's settled," Yrsarald said, clapping her on the soldier. "Now, Galmar…I believe you have some instructions for her? A task in order to prove her worth?"

"Aye, I do. Before I can put you to use, I need to not only know how much you can take, but whether or not this is something you're serious about. I'm sending you to Serpentstone Island, up by Winterhold," he finished, reciting the same words he had rattled off to many a recruit.

She stood up, looking at him calmly as she flattened wrinkles in her robes. "What's there? Do I have to just go there? Does something happen once I get there? Those are incredibly vague instructions."

"That's because I wasn't finished yet," he muttered through gritted teeth, patience obviously wearing ice thin. "It's where men have tested their mettle for ages. There's an old stone structure, built by the ancients, and there's something about the place that attracts the ice wraiths. You're going to go out there and kill one, and bring its teeth back to me."

Solveig raised one hand to scratch at her chin, incredibly confused by what he had just told her to do. "Why do I have to go out there to kill an ice wraith? I saw plenty of them nearby, one by the stables, actually."

"You go to Serpentstone Island because I'm telling you to, is that clear?"

"Fine, I suppose," she sighed, hazel eyes still gazing at him inquisitively. "But…how do you know that I'm actually going to go to this island? Couldn't I just go stay in Kynesgrove for a few days, then come back and give you the ice wraith teeth that I've got right here?" Solveig continued as she held up the pair of teeth she had dug out of the satchel on her hip, obviously looking very pleased at pointing out this minor flaw in his demands. "You wouldn't even know, I bet."

Galmar groaned, clenching his fists to hopefully dispel the urge to throttle her, and then her brother. "I'll know whether or not you've killed it because thanks to admitting your terrible little scheme, you've just earned yourself a travelling partner. I'm coming with you."

* * *

**Next chapter: Drama! Frustrations! And a little bit of sexual tension. ;)**


	3. Teeth and Tension

For a few, brief, fleeting seconds, Yrsarald and Solveig simply stared at Galmar, minds working furiously to process what he had just said, before they both launched into a series of protestations.

"What?" Solveig asked, cocking an eyebrow in surprise, her tone quickly becoming indignant. "I don't need an escort, thank you very much. I can handle this on my own. It was a joke, about the ice wraith by the way, I wouldn't actually do that, I'm not a dishonest woman. I'll go out there and kill it, by myself."

Her brother turned towards her, grabbing onto one forearm, his eyes worried. "No, it would be good for someone to go with you, I don't want you getting killed, but General Stone-Fist…wouldn't it be better for me to go with her? I can go with her; it wouldn't be any problem at all."

Galmar sighed, crossing his arms as he scowled at both of him. "No, you won't. From the ten minutes I've spent with the two of you together, I can already tell you'd coddle your milk-drinking mage of a sister all the way through this simple task, and you'd probably even kill the damn ice wraith for her yourself," he grumbled hoarsely, ignoring Yrsarald's furious glare and agape mouth. "I'll be going with her, to ensure that she doesn't run off and see her little plan through. I've got business in Winterhold and Dawnstar, so it's no trouble for me."

He paused, waiting for a reaction from either one of them, before continuing further. Yrsarald was silently fuming at this point and Solveig was merely watching him with what could only be described as mild, befuddled annoyance, but he couldn't give a skeever's arse about offending or upsetting either one of them. Galmar raised his hand, pointing one large, calloused finger at Solveig. "You. Be ready at dawn, mage. Meet me at the gates to the city. Don't even think about running off before then."

* * *

Yrsarald led Solveig to the room in the Palace of the Kings that Sifnar Iron-Kettle had set up for her, both of them walking in despondent silence for much of the way.

"You know," her brother began quietly, turning his head slightly back to look at her, hoping he could salvage her opinion of the Stormcloaks thus far. "General Stone-Fist is a little brusque, a little rough around the edges. He didn't mean what he said about you being a milk-drinker, I'm sure of it."

She shrugged. "I don't see why it matters, it is the truth. I do like milk. It's delicious."

"Of course you do," he groaned, opening the door for her. "Don't admit that to anyone, please. Mead, Sol. From now on, you enjoy nothing more than a hearty mead or ale," he insisted, hoping that Solveig made it back alive from this journey. "Goodnight Sol, travel safe tomorrow and please, mind what you say."

He set off to find Galmar after she had given him a quick kiss on the cheek, shutting the door behind her. Yrsarald wasn't worried that Solveig couldn't handle herself; he had no doubt that she could brave the wild and successfully slay the ice wraith as the General commanded. He was more concerned about Galmar Stone-Fist throttling her to death out of frustration and anger.

* * *

Solveig sat down on the edge of her bed as she reached up towards her head, fingers deftly working to undo the braids that hung down either side of her face, tossing aside the leather strips that had held them in place. She let out a sigh as she mulled over the events of the day, especially her interactions with Galmar Stone-Fist, a man that Yrsarald had always spoken of so highly of and had obviously admired.

After giving it a bit of thought, Solveig had come to one conclusion.

She didn't particularly care for Galmar Stone-Fist.

* * *

A sharp rap on the door to his bedroom jerked him out of his stupor, and Galmar turned his attention from the satchel he had been packing to call out.

"Come in."

He looked up, unsurprised to see Yrsarald poking his head through the doorway, searching the room for him. The younger man stepped inside, adjusting the armor he was wearing nervously. "General, if you don't mind, I'd like to have a word with you."

"Course you would," Galmar grumbled, hoping the man made it fast, waiting for him to say whatever he had come to. "Well? Out with it."

"It's about my sister," he began nervously, twisting his hands together.

"What about 'er?"

"Well, she's…she's all I've got. The only family I have left. She can fight well enough herself, but please, make sure she makes it back to Windhelm alive. That's all I'm asking."

* * *

Galmar was waiting by the large gates to the city, leaning against the icy stone of the city walls, patience wearing thin incredibly fast. It was well after dawn now, and he had watched the city streets for his travelling companion, growing irritated when he did not see her face in the early morning bustling crowd. He was ready to storm back to the Palace of the Kings when Solveig finally casually meandered up to him, more than an hour late.

"Took your gods damned sweet time getting here," he spat angrily, hoisting his satchel up over one shoulder, mustering up his most intense, ferocious scowl. "You're late. Very, very late. That won't be tolerated once you've taken the Oath."

"Oh, right, sorry," she half-heartedly apologized, her voice airy and unconcerned, her breath forming a small crystalline fog between them in the frosty air. "I overslept. Shall we?"

He grunted, holding back a terse, profane remark, setting off through the gate, with her following closely behind. As they passed the stables, she stopped close by the carriage, looking after him curiously.

"Aren't we going to take a carriage? It'd be easier. We could sleep through the journey," she said with a yawn, covering her mouth with one gloved hand.

"No. We're going on foot. Hurry up, Thrice-Pierced," he called back, whistling wind drowning out his words.

She jogged up next to him, rubbing her freezing arms for warmth, wishing that she had a large, thick cloak such as the one he was wearing. All she had on were her thin, cloth mage robes. "It's just Solveig," she said, teeth beginning to chatter, wondering just how much more unpleasant the journey would be if she didn't have the typical Nordic resistance to frost. "I don't use my surname."

"Ehh? Why not? It's an honorable, fine name, one to be proud of."

"Thrice-Pierced has, umm, well…different connotations if you're a woman," she replied quietly with a shrug, following her words with an uncomfortable laugh. She thought back to Siddgeir, a childhood friend in Falkreath who had pointed out this particular meaning that her name held, thus ensuring that she would never use her surname.

Galmar looked down at her, surprised to see her cheeks red and flushed, leaving him wondering if it was from the cold or from the subject matter. "Oh. Makes sense, I s'pose," he replied gruffly, surprised to find his mind wandering, leaving him wondering just how many times his admittedly attractive companion had been—_Stop it_, he mentally chastised himself, choosing to remain silent instead of continuing the conversation, working towards chasing inappropriate thoughts out of his mind.

They trudged along the stone road in silence, setting north at a steady pace, stopping occasionally while she gathered some ridiculous ingredient she deemed necessary. He stopped abruptly, spotting a large, looming figure in the distance.

"A frost troll, damn," he muttered, motioning for her to stay back, feeling an unexplainable urge to impress by demonstrating his battle prowess. "I'll take care of this."

Drawing his battleaxe, he approached the beast cautiously, cursing under his breath when the troll noticed him, its many eyes fixing him with a stare as the furry white creature set off towards him, its long, clawed digits dragging across the frozen ground below. Galmar gripped the handle of his weapon tighter, closing the distance between him and his foe, watching as the frost troll stopped midway to let out a roar and beat its chest. There were mere feet in between them now, and he swung his axe, pleased when the steel of the blade made contact with its midsection. The troll swiped at him, and he grunted as the razor-sharp claws whistled by quickly, nearly opening his throat, stumbling backwards to avoid the attack. He had raised his battleaxe again, ready to bring it down to meet beastly flesh when a massive ball of fire flew past him, making contact with the troll. The creature let out a loud, pained wail, trying and failing to extinguish the flames that had engulfed its white fur. He stood frozen in place as he watched dumbfounded, still holding his axe in a battle-ready position.

"That was taking a while," he heard a voice behind him say, approaching feet crunching in the snow. He turned to see Solveig, a green, shimmering, glowing light dancing across the surface of her robes. "I thought I might help you out."

"So you're destruction mage," he muttered uneasily, re-sheathing his weapon.

"No. I do know a few destruction spells, along with a few spells from each school of magic, but I studied alteration during my time at the College of Winterhold."

"Alteration?" he replied with a derisive snort, setting back down the path towards Winterhold. "What good is that for?"

"It's good for plenty," she replied defensively, drawing her dagger as she knelt down by the expired troll. "It took me almost a decade to master it, and according to Tolfdir, I was one of the best alteration mages he's ever taught. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some troll fat that I need to harvest."

* * *

It was almost nightfall, but the heavy, monstrous snowstorm that had swept down on them in the last few hours was making travel much more difficult and the thick cloud cover and dense snowstorm that was rapidly turning into a blizzard had darkened the sky.

"I think I see something ahead," Solveig said, striving to be heard over the roar of the wind that was picking up. "It looks like an old fort. Look."

Galmar looked to where she was pointing, eyes falling on a large, ruined stone structure a short distance away. "Looks occupied," he replied, taking note of the flickering lights in the structure's small, clouded windows. "Inhabitants likely won't be too friendly. Probably won't be able to walk right on up there and knock on their door."

"Well, we can't stay out here; we can't keep travelling in this weather. I'm going up there," she replied, ignoring his warning about potential foes, the blue light of a spell gathering in her left palm. "Don't worry, we'll be able to see if there's anyone there."

She raised her hand, blue magicka swirling around her fingers, and Galmar looked up to see that there were a few smoking, bright blue balls of light milling about the grounds of the ruined castle. "What's that?" he asked, watching her with curiousity.

"A detect life spell," she replied, still counting the writhing orbs of light. After a few seconds, she was satisfied, and lowered her hands. "I counted six outside, and one inside. Living, that is. I think if they turn out to be less than amenable to our presence, we could handle them."

He opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off as a shout from one of the rickety wooden walkways called the attention of the inhabitants of the fort to their presence, and they both narrowly dodged an ice spike launched in their direction.

_Mages, of course they have to be fucking mages_, he silently lamented as he grabbed for his axe, jerked out of his frustrated stupor as he felt a hand grab at his arm.

"Can you try and get them all over to me?" Solveig asked. "I have a spell that will make things much, much easier if you can try and lure them all over here to me."

"I don't need the help of magic," he grumbled, pulling away.

She rolled her eyes, magic gathering in her palm. "Try to take on a destruction mage with that axe, I dare you. When you realize that's a foolish idea, get them all over to me. I'll be in the middle of the courtyard," she finished, taking off through a stone arch, dodging a spell fired in her direction.

Galmar took off towards a mage that was accompanied by a skeleton creaking and hobbling along beside them, readying his battleaxe in his hands. The mage backed away with a barking laugh that was carried away by the howling wind, casting a shimmering ward with one hand, sending a gout of flames toward him, fire licking at the snow on the ground, melting it quickly. He jumped back, fire making contact with the exposed flesh of his forearm, needle-like pain shooting through his arm, causing him to grunt and launch colorful, creative curses in the sorcerer's direction. Perhaps it was time to just do as Solveig requested.

"C'mere, you prissy little motherfuckers!" he bellowed, drawing the attention of his foe's comrades, slowly but surely backing towards the central courtyard of the fort, occasionally glancing backward to make sure there was nothing sneaking up behind him. "I've seen skeever's assholes that have been more threatening than the lot of you!"

Dodging spells and distance attacks from the multiple mages was no easy task, but somehow he managed it, only obtaining one more burn on his leg. He shot another glance behind him, sensing that he must be close, seeing Solveig standing rigidly in the middle of the courtyard, green light gathering in both hands, eyes closed as she concentrated on the spell that she was readying herself to cast.

"I'm ready when you are," Galmar said curtly, standing next to her, watching the group of angry mages advance on them. "Do whatever you need to do."

She said nothing, but simply smashed her fist towards the ground, creating a massive shockwave of green light and magic that spread out and rippled across the ground, enveloping the necromancers and mages that were mere feet away from them. Galmar watched in astonishment as they all fell over, lying on the ground stiff and unmoving.

"Now would be the time to take care of them," she said, sounding weary as a simple flames spell gathered in her palms. "This paralysis spell is effective, but will only last a minute at most."

* * *

They had made short work of the mages that had attacked them upon their arrival, with Solveig setting them alight with flame and Galmar bringing his battleaxe down hard, beheading them with a single swing. The bright green light of her paralysis spell flittered around them, and before their lives were extinguished, they watched Galmar and Solveig with frightened, pleading eyes as they lay helpless in the snow, something that had unsettled Galmar more than he cared to admit.

He disliked mages, perhaps even more than before.

After looting the bodies of their fallen adversaries, they had quickly retreated into the dark, dank interior of the fort, shaking the snow that had collected off of their clothing. The ruin, which upon further inspection was discovered to be that of Fort Krastav, was nearly empty, with a short search only turning up one lone sorcerer slumped at a table, fast asleep. Galmar disposed of him quickly, plunging a dagger into his chest before the Breton even realized they were there.

"I think that's the last of them," he said, flinching slightly. Simply moving his arms aggravated the burns from the flames and shock spells that he had obtained. Looking down, he frowned when he saw blistered flesh.

"You're hurt," Solveig replied, inspecting his arm. "Why didn't you say anything before?"

"Isn't bad, it's fine."

"No, it's not. If you don't watch it, it'll get infected. Here, there's an alchemy table right over there, come with me."

She strode over towards the small table in the corner, briefly making a stop by the cupboard next to it, flinging the wooden doors open. He watched as she stood on the tips of her toes, muttering to herself as she reached out, snatching up several ingredients, clutching them to her chest, dumping them on the table once she stood over it. It took about ten minutes of grinding, mixing, and measuring, but she returned to him with a bowl brimming with a thick salve.

"I'm afraid I don't know any healing spells to use on others, so this will have to do. Hold out your arm," she commanded, waiting patiently, slathering his forearms with the thick, greasy concoction once he had obliged. "This should help it heal quickly, and prevent it from becoming infected," she continued, motioning to the layers of skin that had already begun to peel away.

He was surprised to find that the sting and the ache from the burn was already beginning to dissipate, and he let out a satisfied grunt. "Your brother said you were an alchemist."

"I am," she replied with a smile, not giving him any grief for pointing out the obvious. "My mother taught me everything she knew before she died in a Spriggan grove, trying to gather taproot."

"Sorry 'bout that. She a mage as well?"

"It's alright. No, that was my own choice," she continued with a shrug, now wrapping his arm with the strips of worn, black cloth that she had cut away from the dead sorcerer's robes. "Never had any interest in smashing in skulls with warhammers, or learning to block with a shield. There, all done now."

Galmar looked down at his arm briefly before giving her a small nod. "Thank you. We'd best stay around here, don't want to wander too far in this place. Could be more of these wretched things around that we didn't come across," he said, gesturing to a row of bedrolls that were lined up against the wall, their previous owners no longer needing them.

"Sounds like a solid enough plan," Solveig replied, taking a seat on one bedroll, tugging off her boots before moving onto removing her gloves. "If you don't mind me asking, what kind of business do you have in Dawnstar and Winterhold that couldn't have been taken care of someone else?"

"Got some letters from those associated with the Jarls, had some interesting concerns, wanted to hold counsel with Ulfric himself, but since that wasn't a possibility, I'm going," he said curtly, hoping his vague answer sated her curiosity.

"Concerns, hmm? Unsurprising, if Korir is one of the Jarls in question," she said, the slightest hint of disdain creeping into her voice. His ears pricked curiously, and he waited for her to continue, disappointed when she didn't.

She yawned, stretching her arms before she reclined, resting her head on the small pile of rags that was supposed to serve as a pillow. "Well, then. We'd best get our rest. Goodnight."

* * *

Galmar stirred from a deep slumber in the early hours of the morning, rustled from his sleep by something touching him. He blinked away the bleary weariness that clouded his vision, eyes slowly adjusting to the dim torchlight, surprised by what he saw.

During the course of the night, Solveig had rolled her way over to him, most likely in an unconscious attempt to find warmth, and she was currently nestled up next to him, one arm and leg slung across his body, her head lying on his chest, softly snoring. He tensed up immediately from the contact, and when he felt a certain part of his anatomy stiffen, he realized just how long it had been since he had been this close to a woman. The war had picked up in pace and urgency, his duties as General and housecarl were piling up, and running the rabble that comprised the Stormcloak army had left little time for him to engage in frivolous, intimate activities. Galmar tried to slip out from under her and distance himself, but the slightest movement caused her to give a snort, and somehow tighten her grip on him, causing an unexpected, unsettling wave of lust to wash over him. He let out a small groan as he stared at the ceiling. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

There was nothing left of the previous night's storm but a soft, light snowfall, and they had set out at dawn, picking up their journey on the main path to Winterhold once more. He had gotten little sleep due to the incredibly close proximity that she had maintained throughout most of the night, and he had commanded her to take the lead to Serpentstone Island, partially out of a desire to see if she could find the way, but also because he was exhausted and not feeling the urge to lead the trek to the icy island. Solveig had no idea that she had spent the night cozied up next to him, rolling away back to her own bedroll shortly before she awakened, leaving only him to bear the burden of the awkward night.

She had led the way eagerly, casting some sort of spell that led them directly to the island, cutting the time it would have taken them down to only a few hours once they had left Fort Krastav behind. If he hadn't been so grouchy, tired, and busy thinking about the way her body had felt pressed up against his, he would have made some angry, snarky remark about how using a spell was the method a weak Elf would have used.

"Is that it?" she asked, pointing to a large, ruined stone structure, raising one hand to point, the other to shield her eyes from the bleak sun.

"It is," he replied, crossing his arms. "You've made it this far, now do what you came here for."

He watched as she approached the circle of stones with great trepidation, hands at the ready, flames licking at her cupped palms, keeping a safe distance behind her. All of a sudden, a small hiss penetrated the air, and a small, snake-like creature with sharp, jagged little teeth weaved through the falling snow, heading right for her. Solveig raised her hands, flames bursting forth from both palms, engulfing the almost transparent creature in the air before her, stopping after several seconds had passed and the loud, raspy hiss of an animal dying was heard.

"Is that it?" she asked, disappointment evident in her voice as she inspected the small icy pile on the ground before her, looking back at him with a furrowed brow.

"It is. Congratulations, you've passed the test. All that remains is for you to take the oath."

"Really? That's it? It was a little bit anticlimactic, I'll admit," she replied with a sigh, bending over to sift through the pile of the ice wraith's remains, searching for the teeth that could later be used in potions.

"Hurry up, we need to get to Winterhold before nightfall," he muttered, stifling a groan as he watched her bend over, the loose fabric of her umber adept robes becoming taut against her wide hips and ample rear. He turned away, adjusting the large bear helm he was never without, letting out an awkward, uncomfortable cough. Perhaps he needed to make a stop at the Sea of Ghosts for a cold bath to get these strange, distracting thoughts out of his mind.

* * *

**Well, there you have it! Awkward sexual tension. What's up next? Winterhold, that whiny Jarl named Korir, and even better...weirdness and awkwardness! As always, reviews, follows and favorites = love love love.**


	4. The Uncomfortable Aftermath of Mead

"I'm cold," Solveig whined, rubbing her arms furiously, straining to bring some warmth back into them. "It's cold out here."

"No shit," Galmar remarked wryly, patience wearing as thin as the floating chunks of ice they had just gingerly crossed. Her complaints about the frosty weather had begun shortly after they left Windhelm, and they had picked up in frequency ever since they left Fort Krastav. "Of course you're cold, look at what you're wearing. Nothin' but those useless robes. You need to get a cloak when we get to Winterhold."

"My robes are not useless!" she protested, shivering even more. "They may not be as warm as a cloak or armor, but they help me regenerate my magicka. Besides, I don't have any money on me, I forgot to bring any. How am I supposed to buy anything?"

"I'll tell you what," he grumbled, relieved to see the telltale ruins of Winterhold in the distance, unsurprised that gold was forgotten in Windhelm, along with several other items. "I'll buy you a gods-damned cloak on one condition. You have to quit your whining about the cold."

She opened her mouth to reply, but quickly shut it again; giving him only a simple nod agreeing to what he had just laid out, staying quiet after that. They continued to trudge along, and he glanced back occasionally to see her continuously shuddering from the frosty air, no doubt biting back more grievances about the beautiful Skyrim weather.

"We're here," he said simply, opening the door to the inn, motioning for her to step inside.

Solveig let out a sigh of relief when the heady warmth of the inn hit her face, savoring the heat from the fire pit in the center. "Oh, thank the Divines. I thought we'd never make it. Thought I was going to freez—" she began, cutting herself off when she noticed his stern glare. "I'll go get us a table."

He sighed, making his way over to the bartender, leaning against the worn wood of the counter of the bar, running one large finger along the grain. "Need a pair of rooms, some food, and some drink," he said, raising one hand to grab the attention of a woman moving around behind the bar, giving instructions to a young serving girl.

"I'll send someone over," she called out to him. "My name's Haran and this is my husband Dagur," the woman said, pointing to the man tending the bar. "Let us know if there's anything else you need. I'll lead you to your rooms when you're ready; just give the word."

Solveig had taken up residence at a small table in the corner, and was waiting patiently for him. "It's busy tonight," she casually remarked once he had taken the seat opposite her, surveying the bustling inn around them. "I'm guessing most of the people here are on college business."

"There isn't much else to do in Winterhold, have you taken a look around?"

"Yes, yes I have. I lived here for a decade, remember? I did come down here to the inn sometimes."

"Can I get ye anything?" asked a lovely, lilting voice, and they both raised their heads to see a pretty little serving girl focusing all of her attention on Galmar. "Food, drinks?"

"I'll take the horker stew, and give me the strongest ale you've got," Galmar said, turning his attention back to Solveig, waiting for her to reply.

She twirled one messy braid nervously, holding back the urge to ask for a large flagon of cow's milk, recalling her brother's words right before she left Windhelm. "In addition to the horker stew, I will take a hearty ale or mead," she finally said, slamming one balled up fist on the table for dramatic effect. "The drink of a true Nord."

Galmar let out a long, exasperated sigh. It was early in the evening, but he could already tell that this was going to be a long, strange night.

* * *

After downing several bottles of mead, Solveig was feeling pleasantly warm and happy, the happenings of the inn around her nothing but a fuzzy blur. She raised another bottle to her lips as she leaned against the wooden wall of the inn, shivering as cold air seeped through the small gaps between planks, looking up to see the serving girl that had been flitting about the inn hand off another ale to Galmar, giving him a lusty wink.

"I'll be at the Jarl's longhouse tomorrow," Galmar said, polishing off another tankard of ale, feeling slightly drunk as well, giving the barmaid a smile. "I'm guessin' you'll want to go off to that college of yours."

"I will want to go off to that college of mine, I miss it there," she replied, giving a wistful sigh. "Why do you have to go see Korir? That man is a stupid asshole," Solveig finished, uncorking a fresh bottle of mead.

Galmar had been in the process of raising his tankard to his lips, but stopped, pausing to look at her with great interest. The mead had obviously loosened her tongue a great deal, and he was hoping that she would elaborate on her apparent disdain for the man. He was not disappointed.

"All he does is sit on his lazy, fat arse in his longhouse, complaining about the state that Winterhold's in, blaming the college for everything that's gone wrong, when all we ever did was keep to ourselves. He does _nothing_," Solveig slurred angrily, brandishing a spoon she had snatched up off the table. "Oh, and that's not even the worst of it," she continued, leaning in, her voice dropping to a low whisper, furtively looking over her shoulder to make sure that the Jarl hadn't come into the inn.

"Well? Go on," he encouraged, feeling genuinely nosy and gossipy now, wondering if this was what it felt like to be Viola Giordano.

"Few years back, he got some huge sum of gold, not sure where from exactly, and he spent it all trying to find some hat of Winterhold, or some such nonsense like that, telling everyone that once he got it, the other Jarls would finally respect his hold. Gave it all up front to a group of sellswords that passed through, and they never came back! Scammed him out of every last bit of gold that he had," she cackled gleefully, swilling back more mead. "Tolfdir always said that he was a complete moron, couldn't find his own cock with both hands. You should have heard what the others said about him. Oh, he was so sore over it! After that happened, he sat here in the inn with a scowl that made his face all squished, made it look like a hagraven's arsehole."

Galmar froze, thinking back to a large sum of money that Ulfric had sent to Korir a few years ago after he had begged, asking for aid for Winterhold, for his broken city; money that hadn't gone to rebuilding or forming any sort of defense. Instead of pushing it further with her, he focused on the last thing that she had said. "How do you know what a hagraven's arsehole looks like?"

She stopped giggling, her face becoming somber. "You don't want to know. But Korir…I'm sure he's just as bad as when I was here. I only left two years ago, mainly because of issues with the local Nords here, went back home. Not that Falkreath was any better, not after…" she trailed off sadly, frowning.

"What happened in Falkreath?" he asked, surprised by her sudden change in demeanor.

"Oh, nothing that matters too much. I had just moved back into the hold capital, was working for the alchemist there, when Jarl Dengeir ran me out of the city. Some rumor started that I was trying to become a hagraven, or I ate small children, or something along those lines, and all of the Nords there were just as nasty and hostile as the ones here. Didn't want me around. Only Zaria and Runil stood up for me, can you believe that? Well, anyway, I left after that. Built myself a place in the woods, people left me alone after that. I hate Nords," she added, pursing her lips.

"You're a Nord, though," Galmar pointed out, becoming surprisingly angry by what she had said about Dengeir. _Fool of a man always was paranoid._

"I am, aren't I?" she sighed, motioning for Dagur to bring her another bottle of mead. "That is truly unfortunate. Maybe I should become a hagraven, at least then _someone_ besides my brother would like me. The Forsworn revere hagravens, right?"

"Don't say things like that," he mumbled gruffly, looking at her sternly, ale-addled mind struggling to form sentences, startling her when he reached across the table and placed one massive hand on top of hers. "Nothin' wrong with you, if people don't like you, then that's their own dumbass problem. You're a fine woman."

"Am I? You think so?" she asked, looking up at him in astonishment, inspecting him closely. Perhaps he wasn't nearly as bad as she had initially thought he was, surprising herself by what she said next. "Are you married?"

"No, I'm not," Galmar muttered, put off by the seemingly random question. "Never got around to it."

"Well, that's a surprise," she replied, eyes widening in shock. "High ranking Stormcloak officer, and look at you!" Solveig continued, breaking into a fit of drunken giggles and snorts as she wiggled her hands and fingers around. "You're so damn handsome and precious in that fuzzy bear hat, I'd marry you right now if I could," she slurred, surprising him when she reached over and grabbed the ears of his helm, wiggling them around, letting out a tiny little growl that was no doubt something that was supposed to sound like a bear. For some reason, Galmar found himself tolerating her drunken, flirtatious antics.

* * *

Solveig lay on the large, comfortable bed in her room, rolling over so that her face was smashed deep into the pillow, attempting to drown out the noise and loud banter from the main area of the inn downstairs, finding thoughts of her gruff, older companion frequently entering her mind.

_Maybe he's not so bad after all_, she silently mused, slow, drunken hands clumsily wrapping the blankets of the bed tighter around her body, wishing that Galmar was nearby. Stealing his body heat while pretending to sleep in Fort Krastav had been something she had planned to do only for a short time, just long enough to warm up, but she found herself lingering close to him once she found his arousal pressing into her leg. She found herself reddening as she thought back to it, letting out an odd, embarrassed laugh.

_He DID say that you were a fine woman, and he is a particularly handsome man, and pleasant company to boot_, the wicked little voice in her mind continued; only encouraging her to carry on thinking such thoughts. Galmar was an older man, but in spite of his age, throughout the course of the evening, she found her eyes lingering on his large, muscular arms, his stern blue eyes, and his greying blonde hair. Most of the men she had been intimate with at the college were Elves, svelte, slender mages, leaving her intrigued by his massive, mountain-like form, and what it would feel like to…

She shook her head, pulling the blankets up higher, her mind already wandering right back to him. He hadn't been particularly enthused about the fact that she was a mage, but he had been a great deal more kind to her than most of her kinsmen. Despite his gruffness, prolonged bouts of stern, stoic silence, and frequent glares sent her way, Solveig realized that she had enjoying his company, and was looking forward to it the next day.

Solveig rubbed her throbbing forehead, the effects of the mead already beginning to take their toll on her body, making her wish that she had just asked for milk like she had wanted to. She turned onto her side and closed her eyes, hoping that she wouldn't be too hung over when she woke up, eyes snapping open when she heard a sound from the room next to hers.

A deep male voice was speaking, one that sounded like Galmar's, although through the walls, it was difficult to tell. The voice was speaking quietly, in a low murmur, when suddenly an obviously female voice answered, and Solveig heard a tinkling laugh respond to him, and the pouring of water into a tub drowned out whatever they said next.

She sat up in bed, finding herself sobering up rather quickly as she strained to listen to the conversation, feeling a hot, angry flush creep into her cheeks when the sounds of two bodies entering a bath met her ears, wondering if it was that barmaid that had been flirting with him throughout the evening. Over the course of several minutes, the speaking and laughter had been replaced by loud, pleasured moans, and Solveig had smashed all the pillows she had access to down over her ears, not wanting to listen, seething with hurt and frustration, unsure as to why she was feeling this way.

_Stop it, Sol. You're being irrational, just…stop it stupid. You've only known him a few days now, you nitwit. Stop_, she mentally chastised herself, jerked out of the puddle of self-pity she was currently stewing in by a loud, sharp knock on the door. After awkwardly clambering out of her bed and storming over to the door, she flung it wide open.

"What?" she snapped in irritation, surprised, and admittedly relieved, to see Galmar on the other side once she had looked up to see who was there.

"No need to be so angry, I won't bother you again," he griped, trying to ignore the sounds of lovemaking from the room over that had become louder and more urgent, wondering if having to listen to that was what had put her in such a foul mood. "Just wanted to say to meet me back here after you've finished your business at the college; we'll leave from the inn. Night."

* * *

Galmar awoke early the next morning, pleased to realize that the copious amounts of ale and mead he had swigged down the previous evening hadn't left him with an unpleasant hangover. He flung open the creaking, worn door of the inn, surprised when he was met with the sight of the bright, clear sky of dawn. He was heading towards the Jarl's residence when the thick, distinctive accents of the Khajiit met his ears. The few residents of Winterhold had gathered around their tents, inspecting the various wares, haggling over various goods. He meandered up to the throng casually, inspecting what they had for sale, elbowing his way through the tiny crowd.

"How much for that?" he asked, as he pointed to a cloak draped over a large vase.

"Ah, this," the Khajiit man purred, picking it up, passing it off to the large Nord for him to inspect it. "Genuine snowy sabre cat fur, will keep one's self very warm, yes. For the Nord, 150 septims."

"Was it blessed by Talos himself? Why the price?" Galmar grumbled, furrowing his brow as he rummaged for his large coin purse, in no mood to haggle. He tossed the cloak over one shoulder, turning to leave, and stopping when an object glimmering in the morning sun caught his eye.

It was an amulet of Mara, nestled comfortably amongst the other amulets, necklaces, and rings the caravan had for sale, and it pulled him back to a fairly recent conversation he had with Ulfric.

"_Do you know what I deal with out there? The rabble I have to put up with? Sometimes I think you have no idea," Galmar complained, slamming a fist onto the large, table in the war room._

"_Easy, Galmar. I've no doubt in my mind that you're under a great deal of stress," his longtime friend replied calmly, adjusting map markers that Galmar had knocked over. _

"_Broken weapons, wet-eared, foolish lads, and last week, I got word that those fools in the Whiterun camp ate through all their rations in a week and—"_

"_Galmar," Ulfric began sternly, cutting him off. "These are concerns for other officers, not for me. If you simply wanted to complain and whine though, find yourself a wife."_

"_The last thing I need is some prissy little woman—"_

"_Galmar, old friend," the Jarl continued with a sigh, running a hand down over his face. "Find a wife. There are plenty of strong daughters of Skyrim amongst our ranks, and sisters and daughters of the Jarls that support us. War is a lonely, weary endeavor. Perhaps this would be a less stressful business for you and perhaps you would not be in so many foul moods if you had the comfort of a woman? Consider it."_

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he liked the marriage system in Skyrim just fine. He wasn't a poetic man of romance, the kind of person to take the time and effort necessary to woo a woman and lead her to fall in love with him, so putting on a necklace and waiting for someone tolerable to respond positively to it was something he appreciated. It was awkward, brusque, and straight to the point, much he was.

His thoughts rapidly returned to the present, and he found himself thinking of his pretty, odd, travelling companion, who had told him that she would marry him _now_ if she could. She was the sister of a fellow, high-ranking officer, she had proven she was intelligent and highly-skilled, could handle herself in a fight, and her connections as a mage would undoubtedly improve relations between the Stormcloaks and the college. Her pleasant, easygoing personality and her tendency to ignore his abrasive, profane outbursts instead of bursting into tears was a bonus, and more than made up for her forgetfulness, constant chatter, and use of magic instead of weapons. He found himself intrigued by her, even though they had only known each other a few short days.

What she had said was likely a part of her silly, foolish ramblings that she had spouted in her intoxicated state the previous evening, along with her desire to own a pet ice wolf, develop a potion that could make people fly, and her five year plan for restoring Winterhold, but he found himself holding out hope that she had been the slightest bit serious. Perhaps it was time to take Ulfric's advice.

"Eh, worth a shot," he mumbled to himself, handing over more gold for the amulet.

* * *

He knocked quietly on the door to the room she had been staying in, twisting the knob and opening it once he had waited for several minutes with no reply. Galmar stepped inside, unsurprised to see that she was fast asleep still, emitting a loud, unattractive snore. He laid the cloak down quickly on the dresser in the room, scrawled a hasty note that he laid on top of it, taking his leave.

* * *

Kai Wet-Pommel, the Stormcloak commander for Winterhold, nervously peeked through the door that led out into the main hall of Jarl Korir's longhouse, breathing a sigh of relief once he realized the Jarl had gone out, no doubt to have a drink at the Frozen Hearth Inn.

"Now that we're alone, we can finally talk," he said, taking a place across the table from Galmar. "General, it's good to see you. I'm glad it's you that came, and not another. I'm not sure I'd want to discuss this with anyone else, except for Ulfric, of course."

"Your missive sounded quite urgent, and Ulfric himself requested that I come," Galmar replied, curious as to the reasoning, reaching into the pocket of his armor, fiddling with the amulet that he had just purchased. "What's the issue? Why isn't Korir included in this?"

Kai walked back to the open door, gave another nervous look out, before returning. "Because the Jarl is part of the problem. You remember that gold Ulfric sent a few years ago? Gold that was supposed to go towards recruiting men and rebuilding Winterhold, protecting the hold from Imperial advances?"

Galmar crossed his arms, already dreading what Kai was going to continue with, wondering if Solveig had been telling the truth when she was ranting and rambling about Jarl Korir, and his fellow officer would only confirm what she said. "Aye, I do. Why?"

"It's…it's all gone," Kai mumbled breathlessly, eyes watching Galmar anxiously. "He spent a little bit of it recruiting guards for the city, but well, you've seen it out there. Not like we need that many. Shortly after he got the gold, he spent all of it paying a few fellows from Hammerfell, Alik'r that were passing through to find the helm of Winterhold. Paid them all up front like the fool he is, and they never came through. Not surprising, to say the least. The rest was spent on decorating this place," he finished, gesturing to the longhouse that they were currently in.

"What's this helm of Winterhold?"

"Oh, by the Divines, I don't know. Some absurd legend he's been going on about for years now," Kai whispered in frustration, brushing aside a strand of hair that had fallen into his face. "A helm Jarl Hanse wore during the first era. He thinks that if he has it in his possession, the other Jarls might listen to him. Respect him. Ehh, I don't know. He thinks he's actually found where it is this time, though. Some place called Yngvild."

* * *

Waking up was typically a mundane activity, an everyday task that took little thought or effort, but the morning after downing a fantastic amount of mead and ale, Solveig was having great difficulty functioning normally. Her legs felt as heavy as a pile of ebony ingots, and she found herself shuffling across the floor, clutching her blankets around her, working her way over towards the circular table in her room. She leaned against the large piece of furniture to steady herself, inspecting her reflection in the cloudy mirror that hung lopsided on the wall of her room, taking in her wild, mussed hair, sallow, pale complexion, and red, bloodshot eyes.

"I miss milk, I hate mead," she groaned out loud, pulling her blankets tighter around her body, shambling out of her room, heading downstairs, hoping that the proprietors of the inn had some kind of hangover cure for sale. Solveig continued hobbling, resting against the counter of the bar once she had arrived, slipping clumsily onto a stool.

"You there, you were at the college, weren't you? Haven't seen you in a while," said a thick, accented voice nearby, their displeasure at the presence of a mage evident.

Solveig turned slowly, head pounding, stomach churning, and saw that Jarl Korir was sitting nearby. "Yes, I was. Left a few years ago. Still looking for the kettle of Winterhold?" she mumbled, in no mood to talk with him, not caring if she was being disrespectful.

He scowled at her, bristling slightly in his chair. "It's the helm of Winterhold, it's deep within Yngvild, and once I find someone who can retrieve it—"

"Yes, other Jarls will care about Winterhold, or buy you a pretty new dress, or _something_. What a waste of time," she continued; still nowhere close to being sober.

"You're only saying that because you don't have the mettle, the courage it takes to delve into a dungeon to find it," Korir replied, obviously goading her.

"You know what? I could find it. 100 septims says I can find it and bring it back to you," she slurred, raising a fist in the air.

"Well, mage. You've got yourself a bet," Korir replied, emptying his mug of ale. "Do try not to light yourself on fire, or whatever it is that you people do up there."

Solveig glowered after him, trying to come up with some smart remark when all of a sudden she felt her stomach lurch, and she emptied everything that had was inside all over the floor of the inn. The Jarl looked back one last time, a small smirk ghosting across his lips.

"Impressive," he shot back sarcastically, pushing the door to the inn open, stepping out into the cold.

After mumbling a quick, sheepish apology to the innkeeper and her husband, Solveig dragged herself back upstairs, ready to tumble back into her bed. On her way into her temporary lodgings, her eyes fell upon a lovely, white cloak resting on dresser near the door. She picked up the crumpled note resting on top of it, eyes quickly scanning over the short sentence.

_You'd best quit your whining now._

She wrapped the warm, dense garment made of sabre cat fur around her shoulders, falling back into bed. The visit to the college would have to wait.

* * *

"You're still asleep?" Galmar said, stopping by the side of Solveig's bed, looking down at her with a frown. "You look like you've been to Oblivion and back. You look terrible."

"Stop, what are you doing, your voice is so loud," she groaned, pulling the cloak over her head, trying to drown out his hoarse, gravelly voice, a sound that sent pain shooting through her temples. "Let me go back to sleep."

"No, we've got business in Dawnstar, and you're coming with me," he replied, hoping to bring her along not only because he found that he enjoyed her presence, but because he was wondering if she had any more strange, honest insights to offer regarding Skald, another Jarl that had proven to be problematic in his own special way.

She sat up, blinking slowly as she fixed him with a stare. "Thank you for the cloak, it's lovely," she mumbled, poking at the fur around her, looking up at him, a soft, golden glint around his neck catching her eye, piquing her interest. Finally after staring at it for a few moments, she spoke, forming one short, uncomfortable sentence that had the potential to change absolutely _everything_.

"Is…is that an amulet of Mara?"

* * *

**This is where I leave you all for now, heh. I am a wicked, evil woman! Hate to leave everyone hanging there, but this will be the last update for about a week or so! I have a couple of projects to finish for school, so once the semester is over, I'll be back here. **

**I promised more awkwardness, so there you have it! What do you think/hope will happen next? **


	5. A Different Kind of Dungeon Delving

To be honest, Galmar was surprised she had mentioned the amulet hanging around his neck at all. At most, he expected nothing more than a simple eyebrow raise and perhaps a bit of staring, but Solveig asking if it that's what he was wearing opened the door for this uncomfortable dialogue to continue.

"Yes, it is," he replied gruffly, flinching slightly as his voice cracked as though he was some young, wet-eared lad just entering manhood. He crossed his arms as he focused all of his attention on her, wondering if this was a foolish, stupid idea he would soon regret. "Why? Are you...interested?"

She was sitting up in her bed now; bundled up in blankets and the cloak, with only her head peeking out of everything she had piled onto herself, watching him with slow blinking, sleepy eyes, wondering if he was wearing it for a specific reason. Wondering if possibly, he was wearing it for _her_. It was a strange thought that made her heart and stomach flutter, a mixture of nervousness, excitement, and anticipation breaking through the cloudy fog she had been in. She found herself hopeful, in spite of the fact that she barely knew him. She didn't know why, but she had come to like Galmar quite a bit, quite quickly.

"I...I am," she mumbled, stopping abruptly, her eyes widening as her face contorted with discomfort. All of a sudden, she lurched forward, retching once more, spilling a vile mixture of horker stew and mead all over his officer's boots, coughing, gagging and sputtering throughout the entire ordeal. After an extraordinary display, she collapsed back onto the pillows of her bed, mumbling incoherently, rolling away from him.

He sighed, looking down at his boots before trying to slowly kick them off without touching the sick that was dripping down the front of them. Before leaving the room to see if the innkeeper had something he could use to clean them up, he gently grabbed one of Solveig's shoulders and turned her so that she was lying on her side.

"Try not to choke on your own mess before I get back," he grunted at her before leaving the room, only eliciting a small, feeble moan from her as a response.

* * *

Solveig slept for the rest of the day, and he would occasionally stop back inside her room to check and make sure she hadn't worsened, or somehow managed to die. He was surprised to see her slowly walk into the main hall of the inn, taking her time as she came down the stairs, finally making her way over to the small table he was seated at.

"Mornin' General," she mumbled, reaching out to take a thick, crusty piece of bread, grabbing a knife to slather it with butter.

"It's evening," he replied, taking a sip of mead. "I'm surprised to see you up and awake."

"Was I really that bad?" Solveig groaned, trying to smooth down the messy, wild flyaway hairs that were sticking out of her braids, wishing she had taken a look in the mirror before she had left her room. "When are we going to be leaving Winterhold?"

"The plan was to leave earlier this morning, but thanks to inability to hold your mead, we're going to be getting to Dawnstar later than planned," he said gruffly, fixing her with a stare, hoping she felt appropriately ashamed for making them behind schedule.

"Sorry about that," Solveig replied with a simple shrug and an apologetic smile, not seeming to care too terribly much. "I, uhh, hope you don't mind if we make a quick stop at Yngvild. It's a Nordic ruin on an island in the Sea of Ghosts, not actually all that far from Dawnstar. It won't take too long, I promise."

Galmar glowered at her, letting out a small, frustrated grunt. "Why in the blazes do you need to go to Yngvild?"

"Well, I kind of promised Jarl Korir that I would find that thing of Winterhold that he wants," she said, hoping that he wouldn't leave her to go into the ruin alone. "Just a quick stop, as I said. It won't take long at all; you'll hardly even notice any time has passed."

He had intensified his glare, using one that made even the hardiest of soldiers shudder and quake. She, however, seemed completely unfazed by his frustration and anger that was quickly mounting. Galmar had opened his mouth to say something, but was quickly cut off as a dry, hoarse voice behind them interrupted, calling out her name.

"Solveig? I'll be damned. It's been a while."

Galmar turned, now facing a Bosmer man wearing mage's robes, his dark slanted eyes watching her carefully.

"Enthir," she said warmly, her voice becoming warm, breathy, and happy, something that made Galmar silently rage even more, and he couldn't help but watch as she stood up, enveloping the Elf in a long, tight embrace. "It's so good to see you."

"I didn't know you were going to be in Winterhold. Sol, why haven't you come up?" Enthir asked, voice lowering, the slightest indication of hurt creeping into his words.

"I'm sorry, I haven't been feeling particularly well," she answered, their arms still holding onto each other. "I was meaning to, though. Believe me."

"Of course, I didn't mean to sound accusatory. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon? We could meet here," he pressed on.

"We've leavin' early tomorrow mornin'," Galmar interjected harshly, taking a brief moment from his mead to interrupt their conversation. "We'll be gone."

"I wasn't asking you, old man," Enthir hissed, eyes narrowing as he looked at Galmar, seeming to notice him for the first time, turning back to Solveig after a few stare down that seemed to last for an age. "Perhaps another time, then. It was good to see you, Sol," he finished, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead before taking his leave. "Enjoy the rest of your dinner with your barbarian compansion."

Galmar bristled at the man's last words, frowning at her as she reclaimed her seat across from him. "Friend of yours?"

"Yes. Enthir and I were quite close while I was at the college."

He looked up at her, his frown intensifying once he had put all the pieces together; the long embrace, the way they had looked at each other, the soft, affectionate tones they had used. "You were lovers," he growled, voice tinged with an unattractive mix of jealousy and disdain, bending the metal fork that was clutched in his hand.

"Yes, we were. Nearly the whole time I was there," she replied simply, drizzling honey over her bread, seemingly unaware of the visceral reaction he was now having, letting out a loud yawn. "That was years ago, and it's over now. Well, I think after I'm done eating this I'll call it a night. Want to get our rest, don't we?"

* * *

The journey to Yngvild hadn't taken long at all; they meandered down to the seashore the following morning, and hugged the coastline as they journeyed west, fighting off a few wolves and horkers that they had come too close too. Throughout most of their expedition, Galmar remained silent, allowing himself to silently fester, seethe, rage, and be jealous, something that created a most unbecoming emotional stew. Solveig would occasionally try to engage him in conversation, refusing to be bothered or put off by his foul mood, something that only made him grouchier and angrier.

"I think that's it, right up there," she said, after a day long journey, raising one exhausted arm to point off into the distance, looking over at her travelling companion. He had become more silent, surly, and brusque than usual, and she couldn't help but wonder if he was upset about something. _Probably how far behind schedule you're making things_, she told herself, quickly brushing it off, bothered more by his silence than she should have been. Just when she thought that they were becoming friendly with each other, his mood seemed to swing in the opposite direction. Her heart sank slightly, when she realized that she was likely wrong about the amulet. _Someone else, not you, Sol. You're being stupid about this anyway. Elves and mages, those are the only kinds of men that would take a shine to you. _"Looks like a ruin," she finished lamely, ignoring his grumble as she pointed out the obvious.

"You're probably right," he replied, finally breaking his self-imposed silence, gingerly stepping off one of the floating chunks of ice that they had used as an unstable, icy path. "Don't know what else this would be."

Solveig led the way, the aching muscles in her thighs protesting as they climbed up the steep winding path towards the entrance, the wind picking up, making her glad that they'd be getting out of these freezing gusts for a while. There was a large, crumbling triangular stone structure at the top of the island, adorned with a few carved stone statues, rather simplistic in nature. She came to a stop, searching for the entrance to the ruin, eyes falling upon what appeared to be a narrow tunnel carved out in the snow and ice.

He followed her through the tunnel, surprised to see that this seemed to be a bit different than most Nordic ruins, in that it was an ice cave rather than a stone tomb. A soft sound met their ears, and they slowly, cautiously crept forward, eyes searching for the source.

Shambling towards them was something that appeared to have once been a human female, but what was left of its flesh, the tissues that hadn't decayed away was ashy and grey, stretched taut across the bones underneath. Its beady eyes were fixed upon them, watching them carefully. The creature let out a snarl, baring its foul, rotted teeth, a dry, crackling growl emitted from its dusty throat, as it continued towards them a large, worn black axe in its hands. Galmar was ready, gripping his battleaxe with both hands, unafraid of a simple draugr. Solveig simply stared for a few seconds, eyes widening at the sight of the undead creature before her, before opening her mouth to let out a loud, long, bloodcurdling scream, stumbling backwards, clutching at the icy wall of the tunnel. Draugr typically weren't particularly difficult foes, and Galmar had encountered quite a few of them during his youth. He blocked a blow by raising his axe, surprised at the amount of force behind the monster's swing, putting all of his force behind his strike at the draugr, pleased when the sharp steel blade of his axe made contact with his foe's torso. He withdrew his weapon, watching as the draugr gave a dying gurgle before turning his attention to Solveig.

"What was that? By Ysgramor's hairy jewels, woman! You probably woke up everything in this whole damn place," he grumbled, walking over to the woman who was frozen, shaking slightly, but had mercifully stopped her screeching.

"Wh-what was that?" she asked, surprising him when she stepped forward and gripped his arm nervously, digging her short nails into his skin.

"Just a draugr. Don't tell me you've never seen one before. You'd have to have seen 'em, with all that time you spent at the college."

"No, I-I actually haven't. This is my first Nordic ruin, I spent most of my time in caves or Dwemer ruins. Th-that was a draugr?" she continued, hands moving from his arms to his chest, now currently knotting themselves in the fur of his armor, looking incredibly impressed with his battle display. "I had read about them before, but I-I didn't know that when they served in death, it meant…it meant _literally_."

"Just a draugr," he repeated simply, trying not to sound too smug. It was simply a draugr, and it had been a lone one. An easy fight.

"You…you killed it," she said, still sounding awestruck, now looking down at the still, dusty bonewalker that his battleaxe had slashed through, finally turning back towards him with a remarkably affectionate gaze, feeling her heart begin to pound for an entirely different reason than an encounter with a draugr. "If you hadn't been here, I would have died, probably. I don't know if I could have pulled myself together in time. Th-thank you."

Galmar opened his mouth to say something, to tell her that it was nothing, and that it was an easy kill, but he was quickly silenced when she dragged his face down towards hers, pressing her lips against his in a harsh kiss of gratitude, something she had surprised herself by wanting to do, something she had become incredibly curious about. Solveig stopped for a few moments, reaching up with both hands to remove the helm that she found so utterly ridiculous, gently removing it and bending down to set it on the ground beside their feet. She reached up with one hand, twirling one strand of his sweaty hair, letting the grey blond locks slip through her fingers before she stood back up onto the tips of her toes, engaging him in another searing kiss.

He was momentarily frozen, shocked and trying to process what was currently happening, unable to believe if this was real. After a few moments of remaining stiff with his arms pressed up against his sides, he finally moved them to her waist, pulling her closer so her body was pressed flush against his. She had opened her mouth slightly, allowing his tongue to slip in to seek hers, and she gave a small moan when he wrapped one large hand around her neck, spurring him to continue further.

His mouth moved down her neck, lips chapped by harsh winds leaving a trail of burning kisses in their wake as his calloused hands deftly slid down and underneath her robes, ready to undo the ties of her smallclothes. Galmar stopped when his hands were met with her naked flesh, and he found himself gripping her bareness, digging his nails into her. He pulled away after a few moments, raising his eyebrow.

"Where are your…" he trailed off, not wanting to wait for a response.

"I lost them," Solveig admitted sheepishly, an embarrassed flush adding more color to the splotchy red of arousal that was already creepy across her cheeks and neck. "Somewhere in Winterhold. Just forgot them there, I think."

"Well, I think you ought to lose those robes as well," he muttered, voice hoarse and thick with lust. She raised her arms obligingly, allowing him to pull the worn, umber cloth over her head in one swift movement. Once he had completed that, he attempted to undo the tightly knotted tie of her breastband, but quickly gave up and tore off the thin linen covering in frustration. Solveig was now standing in front of him wearing nothing but simply fur boots, and she crossed her arms, unconsciously covering her naked chest. "Don't do that," he said quietly, reaching up to move the limbs that were covering the sight he so desperately wanted to see, to relish and drink up with his eyes.

She gave him a small smile, before setting forth to removing his armor as quickly as she could, pursuing the sight of his bare flesh with reckless abandon, giving a satisfied sigh when his Stormcloak officer garb fell to the ground, landing on the ice with a dull crunch. One of his hands had moved upwards to her chest, gently kneading one of her bare breasts, as though he were testing its weight. A rough thumb set to work drawing lazy circles around the puffy, sensitive rosy bud and she bit her lip as she attempted to suppress a shiver. He pulled her towards him once again and picked her up, allowing her to wrap her legs around his hips, before gently pushing her downwards towards the messy pile of armor, cloaks and robes, letting out a groan as she reached up, taking his length in her hands.

"Oh, Galmar," she sighed, aching to feel him inside of her as she placed one hand on his shoulder and tugged him downwards with her free hand, marveling at his size, raising her hips to try and meet his. Solveig immediately stopped when she heard a noise, something that sounded all too much like footsteps.

"What was that?" she asked quietly, voice dropping to a low whisper as she scanned the icy chamber behind them, trying to concentrate on locating the source of the sound, a task made difficult by his mouth, which was slowly working its way down her body, nipping, biting, sucking all along the way.

"Don't know, don't care," he mumbled, his voice muffled by the skin of her stomach, which he currently had his chapped lips pressed against as he worked his way downwards to the heat in between her thighs.

"No, it sounded like another draugr, something's coming," she insisted as she gently wriggled out from underneath him, drawing her knees to her chest, the pupils shrinking back down to their normal size as fear replaced her longing. "Go see."

"Fine," he grumbled, standing up, walking awkwardly over his smallclothes, a task made difficult by his stiff member. He had grabbed his loincloth, and was ready to put it on once more when an all too familiar snarl jerked him into battle-mode, and he seized his axe, turning towards the source of the sound. It was another draugr, ambling through the tunnel, all too eager to meet its demise. Normally, fighting a lone, weak draugr would be a simple task, easily completed, but he hadn't engaged in combat in the nude with a stiff, raging erection before. His stance was all off, he kept a further distance than he normally would have, and the swings of his battleaxe were awkward and slower. However, despite the rather unusual circumstances of the situation, he managed to slay the creature, and turned back towards Solveig, expecting to see another mesmerized, enthralled look on her face.

She stared at him silently for a few moments before immediately breaking into loud, raucous laughter. The sound echoed through the hallways and tunnels of Yngvild, and she briefly paused to wipe away the tears that had collected in the corners of her eyes. "Oh, by the Divines, that was…that was…"

"It was what?" he snapped, making his way back over to her, settling back down on the large pile of clothing, scowling when she pulled her cloak up around her shoulders.

"Hilarious," she snorted, another wave of giggles washing over her. "Watching you fight, naked as the day you were born, your cock all stiff and hard, I just…I just…"

"Shut it," he grumbled, snatching up his clothes, eager to cover himself up again now that the mood had been utterly and completely destroyed. "Get dressed, and try and be quiet. You're being too damn loud in here. Hurry up."

* * *

**I've been working like a madwoman trying to finish up for the semester, and decided to take a break and finish up this chapter. **

**There you have it. Finally acting on those carnal urges. Almost. ALMOST. :)**

**Just a question, as a side note: once they do finally get around to hooking it up, who would like to see more, ahem, graphic descriptions of the love-making. I'm down for smut if you are! Just a warning, this would most definitely bump the rating up from a T to an M. This chapter was coming very close to crossing that line!**

**If you want to keep up with this story, click that follow button for updates! It's going to go up to an M pretty soon, and it won't show up on your front page by default. Unless, of course, you make a point to search through the M rated titles. :)**


	6. Frisky Business

**[Musical Inspiration: Get Lucky - Daft Punk; Blurred Lines - Robin Thicke; Love You Madly - Cake; and Spectrum - Florence + The Machine]**

* * *

"Oh, come now, don't be like that," Solveig said, watching as Galmar gathered his armor, snatching each part in frustration before jerking each piece on a little more rough than necessary. "I wasn't laughing at you, you know."

He only grunted in response, scowling at her as he pulled on his gauntlets, before turning to pick up his battleaxe, taking care to move as quietly as possible in order to avoid rousing any undead from their slumber. Solveig watched him, making no move to dress herself in her mage's robes once more, simply clutching the heavy sabre cat fur tighter around her bare body.

"I think all of the draugr nearby are gone, I don't think we'd have to worry about any more interruptions," she continued, obviously hinting that she wanted to stay right there and pick up where they had left off before they were so rudely interrupted by the creature that wanted to put an axe in their heads. "If you wanted to…"

"We should keep moving," he replied gruffly, cutting her off abruptly. Galmar knew what she was going to finish that sentence with, and as much as he wanted to push her back onto that messy, makeshift bed they had created, the draugr was a harsh reminder that this was neither the time nor the place for anything like that. "Likely more draugr up ahead and it's possible that there are other foul things in here as well. Anything else besides getting this damn helm will have to wait until Dawnstar," he continued, pushing his helm down over his head, wishing that this didn't have to wait. "It'd be best if we don't sit around on our asses naked."

"We wouldn't be just sitting around," Solveig mumbled in reply, beginning to feel frustrated after being brought so close to what she wanted. She pulled her robes over her head, wishing that he hadn't ripped her breast band to shreds, mulling over his decision to not continue and what that meant. After a few quiet, contemplative seconds, she found herself wanting to make him regret choosing to stop, choosing to wait until Dawnstar, not taking her right then and there. "But fine, I get your point."

Galmar took off, heading further into the bowels of Yngvild, footsteps echoing softly against the jagged ice of the tunnels. "Let's get going. We need to finish this thing and get out of here."

"Don't worry," she said as she caught up to him, turning just enough to look him square in the eye, her sudden, lower, huskier change in tone capturing his full attention. "I _always_ finish what I start."

* * *

They continued further on, Solveig leading the way, occasionally stopping abruptly to purposefully frustrate him, causing him to bump into her round ample bottom, which she may or may not have been sticking out a little further than usual intentionally. Galmar would simply grunt, trying to ignore the sensation of being pushed up against her from behind. Although the physical contact itself was fleeting, lasting at most a few short seconds, the memory of it lingered on long afterwards.

"Which way should we go?" she asked, breaking the tense silence that they had fallen into. They had arrived at a crossroads, with a few smaller, narrower paths breaking away from the main tunnel that they had been walking through. She suddenly yawned, stretching her arms and her chest upwards as she gave a long, loud, moaning sigh.

"It's up to you," he grumbled, trying to ignore the way her worn, thin robes were stretched taut across her round, full chest. He turned away, uncomfortably scratching at his nose, averting his eyes. "It doesn't make a difference. We'll get there when we get there."

"Let's go this way first," she replied, a slim finger pointing off towards the left tunnel. Solveig adjusted her knapsack and took off, wondering why she even bothered to be quiet, since Galmar's loud, thundering footsteps that followed her would most certainly alert any hostile beings to their presence. She stopped suddenly, surprised by the sight in front of her. There was another draugr, a sight that set her nerves on edge, as well as what appeared to be two spectral women lingering near the shriveled creature.

"Think they're friendly?" Solveig whispered, leaning in close to Galmar, full lips gently brushing against his earlobe, and he tried his best to suppress a shudder. She pulled away far too soon, shooting another furtive glance around the corner.

"I wouldn't bet on it," he replied, his voice a low rumble. Galmar reached for his weapon, hoping that she would join him in battle this time around, instead of shrieking in fear. "Anything that's that comfortable around a draugr isn't a friend of mine. Now," he said, taking off into the room, fully engaged in attack mode.

He hadn't been incorrect about the spectral women being hostile. As soon as he stepped into the room, Solveig hot on his heels, the three inhabitants turned their attention towards them. The ghostly women pulled out transparent, blue daggers, lunging towards him, slashing, slicing. He hadn't expected to feel anything, thinking that the ethereal blades would simply pass through him and he would finish the battle unscathed. However, after taking a few steps away, placing a distance himself and his foes, he briefly glanced down, surprised to see a long, thin cut oozing blood. Apparently, their daggers did do damage after all.

While Galmar dealt with the two specters, avoiding blows with the speed and ease of a much younger man, Solveig had all of her attention focused on the single draugr that occupied the room. The faint green light of a protective armor spell flittered around her robes, and she had the most powerful destruction spell she knew forming in her right hand, ready to launch a fireball in the direction of the draugr that was rapidly closing the distance between them. It had a worn iron shield on one hand and a large black war axe in the other, both raised as it growled and shambled towards her. She backed away, raising her hand, concentrating as the magicka built up in her palm, taking aim. The fireball was released, crashing into the draugr, flinging the dusty, moldering creature back towards the wall behind it. Her foe laid still, flames wicking away and destroying the dried out husk that had been its body with rapid speed.

Galmar was finishing up with his final adversary, and he had rapidly whipped the long handle of his battleaxe behind the ghost's neck, using the slender wooden handle to pull its head toward him. He brought his knee up, smashing it into the ghost's face, still slightly fazed by the faint tingling and buzzing sensation whenever he made physical contact with the specter. The spirit stumbled backwards and while the specter that had once been a living, breathing human woman was down, he took the opportunity to swing his axe, cleaving the spirit straight through its midsection as the steel made contact. The spirit crumpled, bursting into an oozing pile of ectoplasm, just as the other one had.

"That wasn't so hard," Solveig said, striding over to join him, looking down at the messy puddle at his feet. "Oh, good! This is ectoplasm. It's so difficult to find and quite expensive if you want to purchase it. Incredibly useful, though."

She rummaged through her knapsack, emerging with a jar clutched in one hand. She bent over, her rear gently brushing against Galmar's front side. He backed away, starting at the small jolt he felt in his nether regions, admiring the view in front of him.

"Gods, I'd forgotten just how…moist ectoplasm is," she said nonchalantly, scooping up the thick, gooey liquid with her fingers, dumping it in the jar.

"Hurry, would you?" he retorted gruffly, having made his way over to a small stone table in the room, picking up a leather journal that was lying on it. He thumbed through it quickly; eyes scanning over the long, thin writing within, the words making his Nordic blood run cold. "It looks like there's a necromancer that's cooped himself up in here. Some fellow named Arondil."

Her flirtatious, taunting demeanor quickly vanished, and she looked up him with a mixture of surprise and concern painting her face. "Is that what that journal says?" she asked, gesturing to the object in his hands. "I suppose he's the one who would be responsible for all of these ghosts and for waking the draugr."

"That seems like a reasonable enough guess. Are you finished?" Galmar asked, looking down at her in irritation, trying to avert his eyes from her chest. Her robes had fallen open in the front, giving him a view that left little to the imagination. He reached into his own bag, pulling out two bottles of mead, briefly considering keeping both for himself before tossing one to her. Mead could make any unbearable situation a little better, or so he thought.

Solveig accepted the bottle gratefully, sending the cork flying as she popped it open, causing a large amount of the liquid to splash out and land on her lap. "Look at me," she laughed, her voice soft and breathy. "I'm all wet now."

He raised an eyebrow, taking in her flirtatious smirk, the dark look in her eyes, and thought back to how she had been acting ever since they had been interrupted by the draugr when it suddenly dawned upon him: she was doing this all on purpose. She was tormenting him, taunting him, teasing him intentionally, and making his want horribly unbearable.

* * *

The further they delved into Yngvild, the more frustrated Solveig got for a number of reasons. They had encountered more ghosts and draugr, all of which were easy foes to vanquish, slowing down their journey none too much. There had been urns to look through, more books to read, and chests to open, but Galmar had insisted they hurry and get through the cave, leaving her no time to stop and explore at all, or to even read the necromancer's journals just a little bit. To further add to her irritation, Galmar seemed to have figured out what she was doing, and had maintained a safe physical distance while successfully managing to ignore everything she said.

"I think…" Solveig trailed off, stopping as they arrived in front of a large, ornately carved set of iron doors. "I think we might find this Arondil in there. Are you ready to go in?"

He nodded, gingerly treading behind her as she opened the door slowly, taking great care to avoid making any loud sounds that would alert the necromancer to their presence, following her to the point where she had crouched down behind a large snow covered stone.

Solveig surveyed the large chamber, which appeared to be a throne room of some sort. They were hiding behind a snow-dusted stone, a large dead bush further obscuring them from Arondil's view. Her eyes briefly stopped on the man sitting on the throne at the top of a short set of steps, before moving to quickly inspect the female specter next to him, finally falling on the grand soul gem that was resting on top of a nearby pedestal, something that caused her eyes to widen.

"Listen," she whispered, turning back to him, tilting her head towards the gem. "I've seen things like this before, soul gems can be used for control. I think that's the case here. If I can remove that gem, I think that specter might just turn against him. Once he's dead, it'll likely turn against us, but we've fought off plenty of those things now."

"Are you sure?"

"No," she admitted. "I do think it's worth a try, though."

She took a deep breath, readying a telekinesis spell in her palm, ready to cast it and pull the object towards her. After quickly peeking out from the edge of the stone, she noticed that Arondil was currently preoccupied with his ghostly companion, and she took the opportunity to cast the spell. The goal wasn't to drag it all the way over to her, but to simply pull the gem off its pedestal, which she did.

Her plan worked, and the ghost immediately turned on her master, raising a ghostly weapon. He rose from his throne, backing away from her as an icy cloud of frost emitted from his palms engulfed her. Solveig and Galmar rushed forward to join the fray, and the door at the back of the throne room was flung open, and yet another Yngvild ghost joined the fight against Arondil.

The black-robed Altmer was already proving himself to be a veritable foe, easily downing the two ghosts that had once been his companions, powerful frost spells causing them to crumple into puddles of ectoplasm. Galmar had rushed forward, trying his best to ignore the stinging as sharp little flakes of ice made contact with his bare skin. He swung his axe, the wide, sweeping movement missing the necromancer, frustrated when his movements were slowing.

Solveig had been watching, waiting for Galmar to move a safe distance away from Arondil so that she could send a destruction spell the Elf's way. However, after watching in exasperation as Galmar kept trying to close the gap between himself and their enemy, his movements becoming slower and slower, she realized she would just have to fire away. A tiny flame formed in her palm, the spell welling up until it had reached its full potential, and she fired, growling in frustration when Arondil threw up a ward at the last minute, deflecting the ball of fire that would have certainly killed him. He launched a series of ice spikes in her direction and she clumsily ducked, flinching at the sound of the sharp, deadly spears shattering on the wall behind her. Solveig readied another spell, pleased to see that the frost that had slowed Galmar down had worn off, and he was swinging his axe with a renewed vigor, managed to slice the man across the stomach, causing Arondil to collapse. The necromancer tried to crawl away, clutching his side with one hand, crimson seeping through his fingers, splashing down to the ice below. He was begging for mercy, and Galmar had already raised his axe, ready to deliver the final blow when a massive ball of fire slammed into the dying Arondil. Galmar was caught in the crossfire, thrown onto his back, his axe flying out of his hands.

"What was that? I had him," Galmar huffed as he frantically tried to pat out the smoldering patches on his armor, looking down at the blackened spots with an irritated sigh. "I was ready to put my axe through his skull."

"Right, because that's such an interesting way to kill someone," Solveig replied, a small eye roll causing Galmar to grunt in annoyance. She walked over to Arondil, whose body was still engulfed in flames, pointing down at the dead man. "Why would you want to just axe someone to death when you could do something like this? Or use a poison that could make any number of things happen? Pah, you Nords and your terribly uninspired ways of killing someone."

"You're a Nord, too," he grunted in reply, clambering to his feet, following her to the small room behind the throne that she had entered. Solveig was rummaging through a large chest in the room, but Galmar's attention quickly was captured by something else. There was a large double bed, as if the Divines themselves had seen his frustration and chose to offer him something in order to alleviate it.

"Here it is, I suppose. It's the only helm in there," Solveig said, standing up, tucking the large, worn object underneath one arm. "Oh, how interesting. There's a bed in here," she continued, passing by it with a delightfully evil smirk, heading towards the door that led back out to the throne room. "Well, we'd best get going then. It's what, a few more hours to Dawnstar?"

"We're not going anywhere," he growled, slamming the door shut right in front of her before grabbing both of her arms and pinning her against it, causing the steel helm to clatter to the floor, marveling at how fast her pulse quickened, taking it in with the thumbs that were pressed tightly against her wrists. "We have unfinished business."

"Do we now?" she breathed, pupils growing in size as she watched him in anticipation, heart beginning to hammer a frenzied rhythm against her ribcage as he tightened his grip on her wrists. "We'd best take care of it then."

He moved forward swiftly, crashing his lips against hers, placing one large hand behind her head in order to prevent her from smashing her skull into the thick iron of the door behind her. She bit at his lower lip hungrily, holding his mouth hostage, and he responded with a low, rumbling growl in the back of his throat as he pulled her hips forward to meet his, grinding his arousal against her. Solveig moaned, a desperate, longing sound that was muffled, disappearing into their kiss.

"Bed, now," she gasped, taking only a few brief seconds to pull away and make her demand.

He guided her towards the bed, their hands ripping open buckles and ties, tearing off robes and armor as quickly as humanly possible, greedily fumbling their way towards ecstasy as they removed all armor and clothing, before sinking onto the soft linen sheets. His mouth reclaimed hers, and he gripped her bare hips, digging his nails into the soft flesh as he pressed his stiff member against her.

"Gods, Galmar," she groaned, raising her hips eagerly to meet hers. "Fuck me."

"Oh no, not yet," his hoarse, low voice whispered wickedly, pulling away satisfied after he had elicited a small, whining whimper from her. "Ever since we set foot in this gods damned place, all you've done is taunt and tease. Now it's my turn to torment."

He planted one last, lingering kiss on her lips before being his journey downwards, his lips meandering slowly, savoring the way she tasted; stopping momentarily to take each rosy bud in his mouth in turn. His tongue slipped out, swirling around each hardened peak, causing her to gasp and groan. Galmar continued, finally stopping to gently push apart her thighs, revealing the source of her wetness. Without warning he slid two calloused fingers up past her slick folds, causing her to involuntarily cry out, bucking her hips upwards as he began a steady rhythm, pumping in and out. His fingers slipped out suddenly and before she could protest, he had lowered his mouth, tongue reaching out to gently lap at her wet, sensitive folds and swirl around her throbbing, delicate node. Solveig groaned, one hand reaching down to tangle and knot itself in his sweaty, grey locks, the other gripping the bed below, seeking purchase. Galmar's eyes flicked upwards, and he took in her erratic breathing, the arching of her back, her breathy moans, and he abruptly pulled away, looking up at her.

"I think I'm done here," he said simply as he moved back, his now wet facial hair glimmering in the torchlight.

"That is _not_ fair," she panted in frustration, sliding her arms back before propping herself up on her elbows, fixing him with a glare. She had been _so_ close to finding release, and then he had stopped.

"S'pose not," he grunted, moving forward, hovering above her, caught off guard when she fluidly wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him downwards so that he was flush against her.

"Still want to be a tease?"

"No, not really."

"Then fucking _take_ me."

Galmar reached one hand up, wasting no time in taking himself, guiding his hardness slowly, gently into her slick heat. They both groaned in unison as he pushed further, fully hilting himself inside of her, burying himself as deep as he possibly could. Solveig reached one shaking hand up, wrapping it around his neck as she pull his head down towards hers, savoring the feeling of being filled completely, mulling over the way she tasted.

The first few thrusts were slow, testing out a steady rhythm, and she eagerly matched his speed, meeting every single movement of his with one of her own. He picked up his pace, spurred on by every single breathy, wanting moan of his name, moving one hand up to cup one bouncing breast, sliding the pad of his calloused thumb in lazy circles around the peak. Somehow, after a few minutes passed, she felt even tighter, even hotter, and her legs wrapped around his waist clenched him more firmly.

By this point, he was having difficulty maintaining control, and when he looked up on his way to knot one hand in her tousled blonde hair, he almost came undone as her loud, high-pitched cries of passion escalated in intensity and volume. The sight of her throwing her head back, the feel of her gasping, shuddering around him, the sound of her crying out as she found her release pushed him to the edge.

"Solveig," he groaned as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, saying her name out loud for the first time since they had met. With one last powerful thrust, he reached his breaking point, spilling himself inside of her, growling her name out one more time before collapsing on top of her, unable to remember the last time he called out a woman's name during the act.

Their hearts pounded against the other's, and they lay there in exhausted silence before he leaned over, pulling her face towards his. He kissed her gently, the hand cupping her face caressing her cheek, surprising her with the tender, affectionate gesture. Galmar rolled off of her and onto his back, pulling her closer and guiding her to rest her head on his chest before they slowly drifted off into a satisfied, exhausted slumber.

* * *

**A/N: Well, this was an incredibly fun chapter to write, and I'm hoping it was an incredibly fun chapter to read. What's up next, you ask? Oh, nothing, just that awkward morning after talk. Who knows, they may even finish that amulet of Mara conversation that they started in Winterhold, since Solveig _never_ leaves something unfinished...**


	7. Something Else to Finish

**[Musical Inspiration: Oh My Goodness - Olly Murs; Know Your Name - Stephanie Quayle]**

* * *

Galmar groggily rolled over, flinching as the muscles in his back twitched, sore from all of the exertion from the previous night. He looked up, surprised to see Solveig sitting next to him cross-legged, wrapped up in the cloak he had bought her as she read through the journals that they had collected throughout the cave.

"Morning," she said, looking up at him with a shy smile, closing the journal in her hands. "Well, I think it might be morning. I can't really tell though, since there aren't any windows in here. Sleep well?"

"Not too bad," he replied, sitting up to face her, maneuvering his body slowly. He hadn't used some of those positions in over a decade, and his aching body reminded him of it. "Might've pulled something in my back, though," he reluctantly admitted, hoping that she knew some restoration magic that could fix the problem.

"Really? Lay down and let me see," she demanded, waiting until he was flat on his stomach, gently moving her hands over the tensed up muscles, raising her eyebrows. "That certainly doesn't feel right."

"Can you fix it or something'? You know restoration magic, don't you?"

Solveig shook her head. "I'm sorry, but I only know one healing spell. It doesn't work on others. I do have an idea, though. Perhaps if I could conjure up the tiniest of flames spells, the heat from it could-"

"No, absolutely not," he snapped, trying to roll away, remembering the panic he felt the previous day when he had gotten caught in the crossfire of her massive fireball spell. "Do you want to burn me alive?"

Solveig scowled at him, crossing her arms. "I will not burn you alive. Just let me try. I may not have mastered the school of destruction, but I'm damn good at it. Now, just hold still."

He begrudgingly obliged, scrunching his eyes shut as he prepared to be burnt to a crisp, trying his hardest to keep the thoughts of the necromancer Arondil's body charred and burnt after she had finished with him out of his head. However, he was pleasantly surprised when her hands touched his back emitting a hot, but comfortable heat.

"How is that?" she asked, beginning to knead the tensed, knotted up muscles below, hands wandering all over his back, pushing her fingers down as they possibly could, wondering if it was last night that caused this minor back injury. He let out a small, satisfied grunt, and she continued her work, concentrating carefully in order to avoid creating a larger, hotter flame in her hand. After several minutes, she stopped.

"What? Why'd you quit? Keep going," he demanded gruffly, looking up at her, frowning when she shook her head.

"My hands hurt," she said, stretching out her slightly sore fingers. "I'm going to go take a better look around this place. I can continue when I get back, alright?"

She climbed out of the bed, striding over to the pile of robes on the floor, giving an exasperated sigh once she had pulled them on. In their haste to remove their clothing, Galmar had ripped her robes, a long tear that went down to her navel. It would be fine to wear them around, given that he and piles of dead draugr were the only others present, but she would need to find something else before they arrived in Dawnstar.

She hovered near the edge of the bed, leaning down quickly to give him a hasty kiss on the cheek, blushing once more. "I'll be back soon, alright? Try not to move too much, give your back some rest."

* * *

After kicking at the locked chest several times in frustration, Solveig eventually gave up, wishing that she had learned how to pick locks. She bent over to shake it about, hoping that would jostle something loose and it would open, but her efforts were fruitless.

She attempted to clutch her robes closed as she stood up, frustrated that they had been ruined; those adept robes had cost her more gold than she cared to admit. Scanning the tiny chamber, her eyes stopped upon the corpse of a draugr that Galmar had beheaded the day before. Solveig picked up the dead draugr, surprised at how light the expired creature was, stopping to examine the armor it was wearing. All of the draugr that they had encountered were female, making her assume that this was probably a tomb for battle maidens, and it looked like one of those that had been laid to rest with armor that might just fit her. After a few seconds of unsuccessfully fumbling about, trying to rearrange its limbs in order remove the armor, boots, and gauntlets, she ended up ripping its arms off.

"Sorry," she muttered insincerely to the dead, armless creature at her feet, holding out the armor in front of her, recoiling at the smell, making a mental note to get it cleaned up at the first available opportunity. In all honesty, it didn't look like it would be very protective, but she figured Galmar might end up enjoying it. She tugged in on after removing her ruined robes, looking down to take it in. Her back was bare, with only a few thin leather straps crisscrossing at the small of her back, and the deep v down the front was only held together by a row of gem-adorned clasps. The leather only went down to the middle of her thighs, but there were a few pieces of iron and chainmail on the armor to afford a little more protection. Solveig let out a heaving sigh, hoping her ample bosom, which was already exposed at the sides, didn't come popping out to greet her foes in the middle of battle.

After pulling on the gauntlets and pulling off a draugr's pair of boots that finally fit in order to replace her shoes, which she had somehow lost, she began to meander around the ice cave, unconsciously tugging at the bottom of her armor, trying to cover her legs. Her mind wandered the same as she did, and she couldn't help but wonder what this would mean now. Galmar was certain to have spent nights with women that he didn't really know all that well previously, and she wondered if she were any different, or if she was destined to be a once and done kind of woman, a thought that left her with a strange, sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Perhaps she was being completely silly and irrational about everything, but her heart always did have a way of jumping in over her head. She hadn't brought up the amulet again, but perhaps if things continued to go well for a few days, she would broach the topic again.

* * *

Galmar lay in bed, maintaining the position that Solveig had put him in. After rubbing his back, she had helped him lay in a semi-elevated position, wrapping the linen sheets and fur blankets tightly around him, leaving him with Arondil's journals and a few bottles of mead for company until she returned. He had to admit; he liked the feeling of being cared for.

He flipped to another page in the journal, eyebrows raising with a mixture of disgust and horror at what he read, wishing he hadn't received the information that the necromancer had been fucking draugr, and very likely doing so in the bed in which he was currently naked in. Pushing those thoughts out of his mind, he sought for more pleasant ideas, finally satisfied when Solveig entered his mind. Closing the journal, he leaned back and rested his head against the wall behind him, shutting his eyes, trying to figure out what was going to happen next. To say that he had enjoyed her company, especially that of the previous night, would be an understatement. For some reason, he found himself comfortable and relaxed, trusting her, not wanting this journey to end, wanting to know absolutely everything about her, and he was hoping that she would bring up the amulet again.

As he was reaching for the amulet on the bedside table, which he had removed the previous night after it had kept smacking her in the face; the door to the room was flung open. He raised his eyes, very much liking the armor she had found to replace her robes with, drinking up the sight before him.

"I'm back," she stated, her airy voice cheerful as she dumped a small bag of items onto the bed. "Found a few pieces of jewelry, this lovely little dagger, and what appears to be horker meat," she continued, raising a piece of meat close to her face, looking at it closely. "Actually, never mind. I don't know what it is. Might be draugr, or something awful like that."

"Speaking of those things, did you know that Arondil was fuckin' them?"

"I did, I read it in his journal," she admitted, flopping down onto the bed next to him. "I didn't want to say anything, though. Nothing we could really do about it, except for trying to not think about what happened in this bed. With him, that is. No going back now. The man fucked draugr here."

"Fair enough. Let's stop talking about that now."

"I'm fine with that. When do you want to leave for Dawnstar? Don't want this little side quest to _draugr_ on, heh," she chortled, laughing out loud at her bad joke.

"I was thinking we might spend a few days here, my back may not be up to it," he said, not wanting to admit that he was secretly glad to have an excuse for more alone time.

"That sounds like a good enough reason to stay put. It's completely fine by me."

* * *

It had been three days since they had arrived in Yngvild, and although they had spent a great deal of time backtracking through the empty caves in order to delve into urns and chests that they had missed, many of their attempts to leave the back bedroom of Yngvild ended up with them tumbling back into bed, taking care not to aggravate Galmar's back, which had been healing up nicely.

"Would you look at all of that, seven rubies, four sapphires, two amethysts, and one diamond," Solveig said, letting out a low impressed whistle as she deftly swept all of the gems back into one large pile. "I'd say that it was definitely worth our time to go back and look through all of those chests."

Galmar was listening to her disinterestedly, busy inspecting the large Dwarven battleaxe that they counted among their haul, testing its weight, giving it a few swings. It was sturdier, and of much higher quality that his current weapon, and he was already getting excited at the thought of using it in battle.

"Listen," she began nervously, clasping her hands together, twisting her slim fingers anxiously, her strange tone causing him to look up, placing the axe on his lap. "I think we should talk."

"Talk about what?" he muttered gruffly, going back to the weapon at hand. He had learned very quickly that Solveig was a talker, and was not averse to being incredibly, uncomfortably, shamelessly honest about what she was feeling or thinking.

"Well, I was thinking we could finish that conversation we started in Winterhold. You know…the one about your amulet of Mara. I'm so sorry that there was that interruption before we could finish," she said, thinking back to the impressive amount of mess that her stomach had managed to produce and spew all over the place. "Only if you want to finish it, though."

Solveig stopped, finally looking up at Galmar from the small stone on the ground she had been staring at intensely, looking him right in the eyes. _Gods, what am I doing, I hope I won't regret this in a few minutes from now_, she thought to herself, wishing that he would say something, anything, instead of sitting there, staring at her with that blank, expressionless look on his face after giving her the tiniest of nods. After a few moments of silence, she continued, hoping her discomfort wasn't too evident.

"Marriage in Skyrim isn't always the most romantic thing, I know. I'm not exactly the best or most desirable candidate for this, I'm certain of it, and I'm sure that you could have you pick of anyone in Windhelm."

"That's not true," he muttered, trying to ignore the embarrassed flush that was creeping into his cheeks. He was _not_ good at this. More than anything, he would rather singlehandedly battle two dozen Thalmor riding on frost trolls than talk about his feelings. He gave a tiny, uncomfortable shudder, hoping she didn't notice. She didn't. "You'd make a fine wife."

"You really think so? I suppose, what I'm saying is that, well, I…I saw that, and I got a little hopeful," she said, stopping to point at the amulet, which was currently lying on the table next to the bed, glimmering in the torchlight. "I'm not saying I'm in love with you, or anything like that," Solveig clarified, hoping he didn't take those words the wrong way. "But I do enjoy your company, and who knows, maybe one day, things would turn into love. You're strong, handsome, kind, we're intimately compatible, and you'd be an excellent partner on the battlefield. I would be lucky to stand at your side until the end of all things. If you'll have me, that is. What do you say?"

"What do you think? You're the only reason I put the damn thing on. I thought you'd be an acceptable, tolerable partner," Galmar mumbled, red hot face feeling as though it was going to explode. "Do I look like the kind of man who likes to wear sparkly fine jewelry around for no fucking reason?"

"I don't know, some men do, you could be one of them…"

"I'm not one of those men. Of course I'll have you," he replied with a pause, standing up and making his way over to her. He was unsure of what he should do, of how he should show a display of affection, so he settled for clapping her on the shoulder with one hand, scratching his neck awkwardly with the other. "Well, looks like it's you and me, then."

Solveig rolled her eyes and gave a small laugh. "You're just all kinds of romantic, aren't you? Shall we seal the deal with some arm wrestling, or perhaps a mead drinking contest?"

"No, I don't think either of those will do," Galmar replied, his low voice becoming even hoarser as he moved his hands to her armor, already beginning to undo the straps. "I have something else in mind."

* * *

"It's been days and days," Yrsarald said, clambering out of the bed he shared with Ralof, bare feet rapidly pacing across the cold stone floor, his creative, worrisome mind creating all kinds of interesting scenarios that resulted in the General and his sister dying horrific deaths. "Something must have happened, they should be back now. They should have been back by now. Why are they not back by now?"

Ralof looked up from the book he had been reading, snapping the worn tome shut with a sigh. "Let me guess, you're thinking that they got mauled to death by trolls, or captured by Imperials, or froze to death in an ice storm."

"They should have been back by now," Yrsarald repeated, his tone becoming high-pitched, whining, and frantic, wringing his hands as he turned to face Ralof. "Something like that could have happened, you don't know!"

"Nothing is wrong," Ralof sighed, pulling his shirt off over his head. "They probably had to stay in Winterhold or Dawnstar for a few extra days, plenty of nasty storms that far up north that will slow people down. You worry far too much. Now, I think you need to come back to bed and use that mouth for something other than whining and worrying."

* * *

**They finally did it and finished up that awkward conversation! They'll get to meet up with some interesting people in Dawnstar next chapter. :)**


	8. Drama in Dawnstar

"We should probably leave soon. We've been here for quite a while, and it probably put us pretty far behind," Solveig said, sitting up in the bed, clutching the furs to her chest as she looked down at him with a smile. She reached over to grab the foul-smelling draugr armor, but Galmar stopped her.

"Not yet," he growled, shifting so that he was sitting up behind her, running rough, calloused hands down over her bare body as he pressed his lips to the back of her neck. "We can stay here a little longer."

"Mm, I'm fine with that," she murmured, leaning back into him, closing her eyes as she rested her head on his chest, letting out a satisfied sigh as he wrapped his arms around her. "Not too long, though. We really should be getting to Dawnstar, lest everyone think we died, or just disappeared."

"True," Galmar sighed, currently running his hands over three jagged scars that crossed down over her left shoulder. During their time alone together, he had gotten to know her and her physical form quite well, and he had been meaning to ask about the numerous scars and burns. "Solveig, what's this?" he asked curiously, tracing along the lines with one finger, liking the way her name sounded as it rolled off his tongue.

"Oh, that?" she began, looking down at them, gently prodding them. "Hagraven got me there when it found me rummaging around in her lair."

Galmar raised an eyebrow. "What were you doing in a hagraven's lair?"

"Their feathers are useful for potions, and besides, they often have loads of rare ingredients stored away. I was hoping to get some of those."

"You were stealing from a hagraven and you got caught? What about this one?" he asked dubiously, pointing to a long, thick puckered scar that ran along her lower stomach.

"That one was from a Falmer. I didn't realize he wasn't quite dead when I tried to take his ears, and he didn't take too kindly to it, so he put an axe in my side," Solveig replied, raising a hand to smooth down her mussed blonde hair.

"I had no idea being an alchemist was such dangerous work," he replied, letting out a hoarse, growling laugh. "What about the burns all over your arms?"

"Sometimes," she laughed. "New mixtures can be a little volatile. I've dealt with my share of explosions."

"Hmm, I think you might need to find a safer occupation," Galmar said, gripping her arms gently, flipping her over so that she was underneath him. "Give up this alchemy business, and perhaps stay at home raising our babes," he continued, wondering how she would react. He was getting closer and closer to fifty every day, and he had already found himself hoping that they would have children of their own, and soon. He wasn't exactly getting any younger.

"Hey," she said with a playful scowl, jokingly punching him lightly on the arm. "Give up alchemy? That's not going to happen. Now, one last time before we leave for Dawnstar?"

* * *

"It's freezing out here," Solveig complained, wincing as a blast of cold air hit her face. It was the first time in days that they had set foot outside of Yngvild and although the cave had been cold, it was nothing compared to the blistering northern storm they had stepped out into. She quickly looked up at him, waiting to see if he would be annoyed by such a rapid complaint about the cold, but he said nothing.

"We should get going," he said, adjusting his helm, taking off downwards, heading towards the shoreline, hoping that there were ice chunks that they could use to cross over to the mainland. "The storm may get worse, but it's only another hour or two to Dawnstar. If we keep moving, we may be able to keep ahead of it."

She set off after him, clutching the sabre cat cloak tighter around her, wishing that her chest wasn't coming so dangerously close to bursting out of the skimpy draugr armor that offered little warmth. Instead of complaining again, she followed Galmar, keeping close to him as they approached the bottom of the island. They came too close to the horkers that were basking on the beach, and Solveig raised her hands, readying spells when Galmar placed a hand on her forearm.

"Not worth our time," he muttered, walking away from them. "Too slow to catch up with us."

Solveig stood there, watching as an angry, grunting horde of horkers flopped and wiggled their way towards them, closing the gap with a painful slowness. Before turning away, she fired one small fireball, giggling as it made contact with a horker, sending the large, flabby creature flying backwards. This only enraged its fellow animals, and they increased their pace slightly, although they still were nowhere close to being remotely threatening.

"What'd I tell you? That wasn't necessary," he grumbled, looking down at her.

She shrugged, tucking her hands back underneath her cloak. "I already had the spell ready, it seemed like a waste not to go ahead and cast it," she retorted, reaching out to take his hand, entwining her fingers through his. He instinctively tensed up, surprised by the foreign gesture, but didn't pull away from her.

"How do you think people will react once we get back to Windhelm?" she asked, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

"Don't know, don't care. Not that it's any of their business what we do," he replied, using a phrase that she had learned was one of his favorites. Apparently, he didn't know, or care, about a great number of things.

"Yrsarald probably won't be pleased," she sighed, thinking of her brother. "He's always been so incredibly determined to try and oversee every decision I make. Oh well, he'll just have to learn to cope. What's that?" she asked, stopping suddenly, her hand slipping out of his, beginning to speak again as soon as he had opened his mouth. "And you'd better not say, 'don't know, don't care'."

He simply grunted at her, approaching the object she was pointing to with his battleaxe in a ready position, placing it on his back again once he had reached his destination. "Dead ice wolf, dead horker. It looks like they got into it and killed each other," he said, looking back at her, noticing that her attention was on something else entirely, watching as she strode over to a large snowberry bush tucked behind a rock and reached down.

"Look!" she cooed, lifting something into the air, a tiny, wriggling object that made him groan. "A baby ice wolf! This must have been its mother. I don't see any other pups around; I think this is the only one."

"What're you doing?" he asked, furrowing his brow as she tucked the tiny little pup underneath her fur cloak.

"What does it look like? I'm taking him with us, he'll die out here if we just leave him," she casually replied, setting off towards Dawnstar once more.

"As it should, that's just the course of nature," he spat, already knowing that this was a battle he would lose. "It's a wild animal, not meant to be a pet. Leave it."

"No."

"Leave it."

"No."

"Leave it."

"No."

He groaned, taking off after her, looking down at the small animal that was already nestled contentedly on top of her chest, attempting to burrow its way in between her breasts, something that made him strangely envious. "What're you going to name him?"

She thought quietly for a few moments, chewing her lip as she contemplated a short list of names, finally settling on the name of the bush that she had found him quaking underneath. "Snowberry."

Galmar gave a snort of derision, shaking his head slightly. "Snowberry? Do you want to turn an ice wolf into a shivering, whiny little milk-drinker?"

He looked down, exhaling loudly when he was met with a stony glare. "What I meant to say…was that you've chosen a fine name. Snowberry it is."

* * *

After Solveig's discovery, it only took them an hour to reach Dawnstar. They had gotten a much later start than anticipated, and they dragged themselves into the city around dusk. Galmar pushed open the door to the Windpeak Inn, groaning slightly when he saw who was standing behind the counter. Abelone was a young Nord woman that often kept him company of a more intimate variety when he was visiting the Pale, and from the expectant look on her face, he knew that she would anticipate to continue whatever it was they had.

"General Stone-Fist," she murmured, glancing up at Solveig curiously before turning back to him with a tiny smile and a dark look in her eyes. "It is _so_ good to see you again. How have you been? We'll have to…catch up tonight. Two rooms, I presume?"

"No, just one," he replied, noticing the quick burst of jealous anger that crossed Abelone's face. The woman quickly composed herself, flashing both of them a tense, dazzling smile.

"Are you a friend of Galmar's? A pleasure to meet you!" Solveig interjected, leaning onto the counter, giving the glaring woman a genuinely kind, enthused smile. "You'll have to share a drink with us tonight. Oh, or perhaps dinner?"

"I suppose," Abelone replied reluctantly. "I'll have Thoring take everything up to your…room."

* * *

Solveig placed her hands on the sleeping pup in her lap, smoothing down the mottled grey and white fur as she surveyed the bustling inn around them. "It's busy in here tonight."

"Of course it is. You saw what was out there. A small shipyard, couple of mines…there's nothing else to do in Dawnstar but come here after people are done working for the day," he responded, sincerely glad that Abelone had come up with some excuse to turn down Solveig's invitation to join them for dinner, telling them that she had a great deal of work to do at the inn.

"I'll be going to see the Jarl tomorrow," Galmar continued, taking a sip of his mead, frowning slightly as he thought of the letter he had received from the captain of the guard in Dawnstar, urging him to come. "Whatever you do during that time is up to you."

"I'm sure I can find something to do," she replied, slipping a small piece of horker loaf to Snowberry, who eagerly snatched it up, already working on readjusting to Galmar's cold, brusque professionalism that he had taken back up upon reaching the city.. "I saw an alchemist's shop, so I may stop by there, or perhaps I'll go visit the blacksmith to see if they can get the stink out of this armor."

"Mind if I join you?" asked a quiet, accented voice, and they both looked up from their dinner to see a Dunmer man in priest's robes looking down at them with clasped hands. "I couldn't help but notice that you were travelers, and I just had something to ask of you."

Before Galmar could respond, Solveig had already told the man that it would be more than fine, that they would love the company, and had pushed out the empty chair at their table. "What is it that you need? My name is Solveig, by the way."

"It's a pleasure. My name is Erandur, and I've come here to investigate the nightmares that have been plaguing the townsfolk."

Galmar raised an eyebrow, wondering if this was one of the problems that Jod had been referring to in his letter. "Nightmares?"

"Yes, nightmares," Erandur sighed, placing his hands in his lap. "You're the first travelers that will be staying in Dawnstar for the night, and I'm hoping to see if the nightmares trouble you as well."

"Well, I suppose we'll find out tonight," Solveig replied, taking a sip of mead. "I'll be sure to tell you tomorrow. What kind of priest are you, anyway?" she asked, gesturing to the orange robes he wore.

"I'm a priest of Mara."

"Really? We'll be seeing one of those soon enough, won't we?" Solveig said with a laugh, nudging Galmar in one thick, muscled bicep, smiling when he grunted in the affirmative.

"Not sure when that'll happen, to be honest," the Nord man admitted with a frown, unsure of when they would find the time to make it to Riften. "We'll both be plenty busy once we get back to Windhelm."

"Well, if that's the case, I'd be more than happy to perform a ceremony here in Dawnstar."

They both looked up at the Dunmer in surprise, both silently mulling over his offer.

Solveig stroked Snowberry's hair silently, considering what Erandur had just offered. She hadn't ever been the kind of woman who wanted a large, extravagant wedding, and the thought of making it happen sooner, rather than later, was appealing, and she pushed aside any thoughts of Yrsarald's potential displeasure.

Galmar absentmindedly tugged at his beard, realizing how appealing the offer sounded to him. Ulfric had hinted at what kind of wedding he would have once the day came, and he shuddered at the thought of wearing hideous, fancy clothing, of being forced to smile around complete strangers, and having everyone staring at him, watching. He wasn't a flowery, fancy, extravagant man, so something that was incredibly short, simple, and private had its appeal.

"We'll consider it," she finally said, looking up at Galmar, who nodded in agreement. They would seriously think about his offer.

* * *

Galmar left for the Jarl's longhouse early at dawn the following morning after muttering a quick goodbye to a half-asleep Solveig, letting out a frustrated sigh when he saw Abelone sitting on the bench outside of the inn, obviously waiting for him.

"Can we talk?" she asked, quickly dusting the crumbs from her breakfast off of her dress, looking up at him.

"Don't know why you want to, there's nothin' to talk about," he replied, setting off down the short flight of steps, hoping she wouldn't push it any further.

"Who is she?" Abelone asked, breaking into a short jog to catch up with him, adjusting the thin cowl she wore on her head.

"Who do you think she is?" Galmar grumbled. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I don't exactly have time for this. I've got some business with the Jarl I need to attend to."

Abelone stopped, watching him walk away, feeling jealousy, anger, and betrayal that she knew that she had no right to feel, twisting the worn amulet of Mara that she wore around her neck. Deep inside, she knew that she had been a fling, someone he used whenever he happened to stop in the city to satisfy his most base, carnal desires, and nothing more. Despite that, she found herself hoping that the older Stormcloak officer that he would notice the amulet she wore, and would take her away from the festering, dying city of Dawnstar. She turned quickly on her heel, angrily storming back towards the inn to begin yet another dull, tedious day of work.

* * *

"Good morning," Solveig said cheerfully, looking up at Abelone as she set a stack of firewood behind the counter of the inn. "These eggs are delicious, by the way."

"Thank you," Abelone muttered, turning to look at the woman who was leaning against the counter. This woman of Galmar's certainly was pretty and friendly, she had to give her that. She hadn't planned on speaking to her, she had only wanted to ignore the pretty, busty blonde, but her curiosity overwhelmed her. "How did you meet the General?"

"Oh, Galmar?" Solveig began, running one finger along the wood grain of the counter, failing to notice Abelone flinching at the casual use of his first name, no titles involved. "My brother is another Stormcloak officer, and he convinced me to join, so I did."

"You're a soldier? I don't see any weapons on you."

"I'm a mage, although I'll mainly be doing alchemy for the Stormcloaks. Speaking of which, there's an alchemy shop here, isn't there?"

Abelone opened her mouth, and then quickly closed it once more, mind furiously working as she concocted a plan, surprised when she began to speak. "You know, you don't want to go there," Abelone said, tossing the rag she had been using onto the counter, leaning over with a smile. "Everyone knows that Frida at the Mortar and Pestle overcharges all of her customers," she lied, spurred on to continue when Solveig leaned in closer, looking interested. "If you'd like, I can tell you where you can find plenty of ingredients on your own. It's not too far from here at all."

"Really?" Solveig asked, her eyes lighting up. "That would be wonderful!"

"Here, let me mark it on a map for you," Abelone said, grabbing a nearby piece of charcoal, pulling a tiny, worn map out from underneath the counter. "It's called Red Road Pass. There's plenty to be found there."

"Thank you so much," Solveig replied with a smile, briefly grabbing one of Abelone's hands, giving it a squeeze. "It was so kind of you to share this with me, I really appreciate it. It's Abelone, right? Thank you again."

Abelone felt a tiny, niggling pang of guilt as she watched Solveig enthusiastically bound through the door of the Windpeak Inn with her tiny little wolf tucked under one arm, oblivious that she was headed towards a camp filled with giants that were notorious for brutally killing travelers who wandered too close.

* * *

**A/N: Jealous girl drama! That's always fun, right? Sorry this chapter was a little slow. Don't worry, there will be all kinds of excitement next one!**


	9. Whispers of the Jester

Solveig had been walking south along the cobbled stone road that led out of Dawnstar for nearly an hour with a wriggling ice wolf pup clenched tightly under one arm and an empty basket for the ingredients that she hoped to find underneath the other. She had become lost in her thoughts as she walked along, with most of her attention being focused on the offer that the Dunmer priest had left them to consider. They hadn't had a chance to discuss it the prior evening, with both of them only wishing to tumble into bed out of sheer exhaustion. After careful consideration, she had decided that she wanted to take up Erandur's proposition, and she hoped Galmar would as well. Yrsarald likely wouldn't be pleased, but she couldn't give a damn about his reaction at the moment. Solveig shifted slightly, adjusting the wolf that was close to slipping out from underneath her arm, feeling a kind of strange mixture of excitement and anxiety as she thought of the possibility of being married soon.

It was something that Enthir hadn't even brought up, despite the years that their relationship had dragged on. Before she left Falkreath, she had been casually seeing someone, a handsome Imperial soldier by the name of Hadvar, who would stop by to visit her every other Sundas and marriage certainly hadn't been something he brought up either. He had found someone to discuss something other than the happenings and brutalities of war with, and she was grateful to have any company at all, and for someone who was more than willing to test out the various stamina potions she created. She felt a slight pang of guilt as it dawned upon her that she had left without saying goodbye, and she realized that today was actually one of his scheduled visits. Solveig wondered if he would worry when he found her small little house abandoned and empty, or if he would simply shrug it off and continue on his way. Brushing it aside, she quickened her pace, eager to reach her destination.

She stopped, setting down Snowberry and the basket, so that she could lean on one of the crumbling stone walls that dotted the sides of the road. Pulling out the map Abelone had handed her, she unfolded the thick parchment, running a finger along the dashed line that symbolized the road, coming to a stop on the charcoal X that marked her destination. There was something underneath the marking, a miniscule symbol of some kind that had been drawn onto the parchment, but when she tried to rub the charcoal off, she only created a dark black smudge, leaving her wondering what it had been and what it had referred to.

"Come on, pup," she called out as she took off, tucking the worn map back into her knapsack, glancing back towards Snowberry, who was currently leaping about, snapping his tiny little jaws, trying to catch the thick snowflakes that were lazily fluttering towards the ground. "We're almost there."

Continuing forward, for several minutes the only sounds she heard were the soft calls of the hawks circling overhead, the occasional snaps of Snowberry's little mouth, the quiet whistle of the wind through the snow-dusted pines, and the crunch of snow with every footstep. Suddenly, she stopped, feeling the ground begin to quake ever so slightly beneath her feet, and she crouched down behind a nearby boulder, peeking above it ever so slightly to see what was happening.

In front of her was a pair of giants, crashing and blundering towards a carriage in the middle of the road, which had already seen its fair share of damage; one wheel had been smashed away completely and the carriage was resting on its side, the undamaged wheel spinning lazily in the air, with its precious cargo in serious danger of sliding out and plunging to the ground below. There was a tiny man, dressed in what appeared to be a jester's outfit, letting out a series of shrill shrieks and curses as he deftly weaved in between the giant's legs, jabbing at their bare, exposed legs with tiny little daggers, each little stab only seeming to irritate the giants further.

"Stay right here," Solveig instructed, hoping that the little wolf understood as she placed him inside the basket and tucked it behind the boulder. She covered the basket with her cloak, shivering slightly as the cold air hit her bare flesh and gooseflesh quickly cropped up all over her skin, readying spells in her hands as she rushed forward, joining the fray.

"Oh ho, has a kind stranger come to help poor, poor Cicero?" the man called out to her, dodging a blow from one of the giant's clubs before breaking out into a small little jig.

"That's the idea," Solveig replied, her breathy, airy voice creating a small crystalline fog in front of her as she raised her palms, a large burst of fire shooting forth from her right hand, hitting one of the giants right in the middle of its chest. The creature staggered backwards in the midst of the small explosion, swaying as it sought to rebalance itself, clutching at its smoldering flesh, and quickly turned all of its fury and attention towards Solveig, who was now rapidly backing away. Giants were slow moving, but their long, thundering strides enabled him to quickly close the distance between them.

The enraged creature swung its club with all of its might and she threw herself on the ground as quickly as she could, heart pounding when a whoosh of air hit the back of her head, trying to not think of what it would feel like to get smashed by the crude club. The worthless armor she was wearing certainly wouldn't do much, and she quickly cast stoneflesh, hoping that the spell afforded her the slightest bit of protection. The giant's club made contact with a nearby tree, sending a spray of wood chips and splinters showering over her head. Solveig cautiously looked up, scrambling to her feet, taking advantage of the fact that her foe's club had become stuck in the tree it had smashed into.

Taking a deep breath, Solveig narrowed her concentration, a strong paralysis spell welled up in her left palm and just as the giant had torn its weapon free, she cast it. The massive creature immediately froze, shrouded in the glimmering light of her spell and tumbled forward, as stiff as a board. She stepped out of the way, avoiding being crushed by the large creature that had toppled forward as though it were simply a felled tree downed by nothing more than a rusty axe. The man that had called himself Cicero enthusiastically leapt forward, dual wielding readied daggers.

"So still, so ready to die, to enter the Void!" he cackled gleefully, tiny arms a blur as he stabbed repeatedly, sending a warm, crimson spray all over Solveig. She looked up, shaken from her stupor as the second giant thundered towards them, weapon raised, and she raised her hands once more, running towards it, casting another paralysis spell, one that was weaker due to her spent magicka. Cicero had made short work of the first giant, and ran over enthusiastically, daggers ready to plunge into the second one. The giant lay frozen, grunting in pain as the man adorned in a jester costumed pushed the tiny steel blade into its neck, sending a tiny spurting fountain of blood over Solveig once more.

"Brrr, chilly," he murmured, once he had sheathed his daggers, rubbing his arms as he turned towards Solveig. "Although not as chilly as the lovely stranger who helped…your juggling balls are loose," he cackled, clapping his hands in amusement.

Solveig looked down, surprised to see the problem that she had first anticipated when she put on the armor had indeed happened. She quickly stuffed her bare breasts back into the skimpy draugr armor; cheeks flush with humiliation as she crossed her arms over her chest. She remained silent, not saying anything as she watched him stride over to the wrecked carriage, planting gloved hands on his hips in frustration.

"Ahh, bother and befuddle!" he cried out, turning towards Solveig, wringing his hands. "Look at my wagon! Poor Cicero is stuck…however will I get my poor, sweet mother to a new home? Don't worry, she wasn't injured. She hasn't been alive in a long, long time," he chortled, gesturing to the coffin that was in danger of slipping out of the carriage.

He stopped, suddenly, eyes widening as he stared at her, obviously working out some sort of plan in his mind. "Yes?" Solveig suddenly sighed, staring down at the splatters of drying blood that were caked all over her arms, before looking up at the weird little man, wondering if there really was a corpse in the coffin at all. She was going to have an interesting story to tell once she returned to Dawnstar.

"The kind, sweet stranger has helped Cicero once! Perhaps…perhaps she could help again? If you do, you will be rewarded with coin, shiny, clinking, gleaming coin!"

Solveig gnawed on her lip, looking away towards the obviously mad, unstable jester named Cicero, resting her eyes on the carriage, which was looking quite awful "I'm not quite sure how much help I could be," she admitted, giving a tiny shrug. "I honestly don't know anything about fixing carriages, but I'm sure there's someone in Dawnstar who could help you, if you want to come back with me after I'm done here."

He clapped his hands in delight, breaking into another little dance. "Thank you, thank you! Cicero will gladly follow to Dawnstar."

Solveig had walked back to the boulder she had left Snowberry behind, letting out a loud sigh of relief once she flipped the cloak off of the basket and saw that he had fallen asleep, completely oblivious to the excitement that had occurred around him. Hoisting the basket up onto one hip, she rejoined Cicero near the deceased giants, taking out Snowberry and handing him to the jester. "Here, hold onto him while I get these toes, will you?"

Cicero watched as Solveig drew her dagger and calmly began to saw through the giant's foot, nonplussed by the blood that was coursing down over her hands and arms throughout the process, dropping each enormous, disgusting toe into her basket after she had removed it. She stood once she had completed her task, wiping her hands off on her bare legs, smearing blood all over the naked skin.

"What is your name?" he suddenly asked, sounding surprisingly sane and normal for the first time since they had met. "Why are you taking their toes? Trophies?"

"Solveig," she replied, looking up from her bloody work with a small smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Cicero. No, these aren't trophies. They're for potions."

"Solveig is an alchemist? Poisons, poisons, poisons!" he cried out gleefully, holding Snowberry out while he spun around in circles, startling the tiny wolf. She let out a sigh. There it was again, the not-so-sane Cicero.

"I am. Poisons are actually my favorite," she admitted, reaching for the map in her knapsack once the blood that coated her hands had dried. "All of the different ways that they can kill or maim someone, it's…it's absolutely, wonderfully fascinating," she sighed appreciatively, turning towards Cicero, wondering if he would think her as odd or creepy as others did. She took a deep breath, preparing to be chastised for her fascination and fixation with death. Much to her surprise, he was bobbing his head happily in agreement.

She flipped open the map, trudging off the main road, ignoring Cicero's muttering to the wolf that he would make a fine killer one day, once he had grown and learned to rip out throats. Stopping in the clearing that she had arrived in, she surveyed her surroundings, taking in the mammoth skulls perched on crumbling stone towers, the large, roaring fire, the foul stench that permeated the brisk, chilled air, and the smattering of dead bandits and rotting corpses that were strewn about. This was undoubtedly a giant's camp.

"This…this can't be right. This can't be Red Road Pass," Solveig mumbled to herself, furrowing her brow. She had gone to the exact spot that Abelone had marked on her map, and it had turned out to be a giant's camp. Could Abelone have sent her here on purpose? "No," she whispered out loud.

"No? No! No, what?" Cicero asked, raising one slim finger in the air that hovered in front of her face before gently prodding her on the tip of the nose.

"This can't be right, she must not have known that this was…that this was a giant's camp? She wouldn't have sent me here if she knew, right?" she continued, gazing out blankly towards the pair of mammoths that were meandering nearby, speaking more to herself than to Cicero. "She wouldn't have told me to go here if she did…"

"Oh? Did someone send sweet Solveig to the giants to meet her end?" he whispered excitedly, eyes widening. "We should stab them! Cicero can do such beautiful knife work! Stab, stab, stab!"

"No," Solveig replied adamantly, kneeling down by a chest that was tucked underneath a small rock overhang, unlatching it after she discovered that it wasn't locked, something that didn't come as much of a surprise. Giants likely didn't have to worry about thieves creeping into their dangerous camps to steal their belongings. "No killing. She probably didn't know," she continued, doubt creeping into her words, feeling reservations about the accuracy of her words.

"The one who sent Solveig here most certainly knew where she was going, oh ho!" Cicero insisted, dancing about excitedly, an action that caused Snowberry to whine in irritation. "They sent her here to _die_."

Solveig tried to ignore him, but his words were getting to her; as much as she hated to admit it, he was probably right. Abelone hadn't been exactly the most welcoming or friendly person, a strange jealousy that Solveig didn't quite understand flickering behind her glaring eyes. She had tried to ignore it, had tried to be as pleasant as she could, but something she had done led her straight to a giant's camp.

Cicero refused to give up. "Perchance no stabbing, then? Kind Solveig did say that she loved her poisons, oh how she loves them…" he trailed off in a whisper as he leaned down to speak quietly, hot breath warming her ear. "One little splash of poison, when passing by a lonely little ale that was left unattended…"

She shook her head, closing the chest after she had pulled out all of the ingredients inside and stuffed them in her basket. At least she wouldn't be walking away from this empty handed. "Come on," she said, trying to push Cicero's strong, frequent suggestions of murder out of her head. "We should probably head to Dawnstar now."

* * *

Galmar stomped off the snow that had accumulated on his boots before stepping into the White Hall, removing his helm and shaking out his hair in the process, mind already off wandering far from the concerns regarding the issues in Dawnstar. His mind was focused on his pretty companion, his wife-to-be, wondering what she was doing at the moment, hoping that she would be amenable to accepting the Elf's offer. Galmar hoped he would find her still curled up in their bed in the inn once he returned from his business with Skald; they could discuss it then. The sound of a kettle clattering to the floor jerked him out of his haze, and he looked past the roaring flames in the fire pit, squinting slightly in order to see through the dim, smoky air of the longhouse, frowning when he realized Skald's throne was empty.

"Jod," he called out, his thick, gruff accent drifting through the hall, bouncing off the wooden planking of the longhouse in a dull echo.

"General, glad to see you could make it," said a tall Nord man, poking his scarred, shaved head out of a doorway to Galmar's left. "Come on in here, and we can talk."

"What is this about, Jod?" Galmar asked, tossing his cloak over a nearby chair before making himself comfortable, settling down over the fur that covered the creaking wood below. "Your letter sounded urgent. Is it about the Jarl? Where is he?"

Jod, the captain of Dawnstar's guard, snorted in derision. "Skald? He's out hunting sabre cats, or wolves, or bears, or something. Not sure. Banner-Torn went with him to keep an eye out, to watch him. It's actually probably better that he's not here, since, well…he's the cause of the problems."

Galmar raised an eyebrow as he accepted the bottle of mead that Jod held out to him. "Problems? What problems?"

"I should rephrase that, I suppose," Jod said with a sigh, running one scarred hand over his bare head. "He's not necessarily the cause, but he's certainly not the solution. I'll be honest, Dawnstar's in a bad way now. First, women start disappearing, all lovely young milkmaids, too. He doesn't do a damn thing to look into it, and their families have been absolutely livid. Now, these nightmares have been driving people away to leave the city, and the mines are on the verge of closing after losing so many workers. It doesn't help that he's not concerned in the slightest, only caring for the war that's going on, focusing all of his attention on finding more recruits."

"Have you told him your concerns?"

"Of course! He won't listen, though. Won't listen to anyone, unless they want to talk about how wretched the Imperials are, or discuss his staunch support for Ulfric's cause. He's even been pressuring poor Madena, his court wizard," Jod clarified, scowling as he shook his head. "She's a Breton who only desires to return to High Rock until the war ends. The ass is trying to force her to enlist. He won't let her set foot outside of the city. Absolute madness, calling and pushing for Stormcloak recruits and neglecting his hold the way he is," Jod paused, casting his somber eyes downward. "It's…it's simply that I, along with others here, worry that if a Jarl who doesn't have any concern for the problems in his hold is left in charge, then there may not be a city to come back to after the war."

Galmar groaned, letting out a worried grunt as he ran one hand down over his face. It was bad enough that Korir wasn't paying any mind to the issues of his hold, but now Skald? If there was to be any hope of a strong Skyrim, she needed Jarls who had only her best interests in mind, who were worthy of the task of protecting her and her people. "What of the townspeople? What do they think of this situation?"

"Honestly, they're all as displeased with his fanaticism and aggression as I am. I think…I think it may be time for someone else to take charge of Dawnstar," Jod said, his voice dropping to a low, tense whisper. "When that time comes, can I depend on your for your assistance?"

"Aye, you can," Galmar replied with a nod. He had to relay these messages to Ulfric, but he was certain that the Jarl would want to know of, and immediately alleviate, these weaknesses. "Now, what else is there to be discussed before Skald returns?"

* * *

Solveig had expected the little jester man to annoy and frustrate her throughout the entire journey to the coastal city, but she had found his company to be surprisingly delightful and amusing. He had continued to push the idea of slaughter along the way, encouraging her to take her revenge on Abelone, who had apparently sent her towards Red Road Pass in hopes that she would be bludgeoned to death by an angry, territorial giant.

"So, then the man said, 'that's not a horker, that's my wife'!" Cicero crowed, finishing up yet another one of his jokes, rubbing his hands together in delight. Solveig laughed, the smallest hint of a smile ghosting upon her lips, giving a nod to the Khajiit caravan as they passed by, wondering if it they were the same ones that were in Winterhold.

"I need to stop by the inn before we go see the blacksmith, to see if he can't help you out," she said, striding up the steps that led to the Windpeak. She was hoping to talk to Abelone, to gauge her reaction, to seek the truth, and until she could do so, Solveig would give the woman the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she hadn't sent her off into a death trap. Perhaps Solveig was reading into the situation more than she should have.

She pushed open the door, catching Abelone's eye as she stepped through into the heady warmth of the inn, and the brief whirlwind of emotions that crossed over the Nord woman's face told her absolutely everything she needed to know. She looked stunned at first, her mouth dropping open, forming a tiny 'O' shape. Shock was followed by a hurried flash of obvious anger at the sight of Solveig living, breathing, still existing, before flinging the rag she had been polishing tankards with onto the counter. Abelone then allowed the slightest hint of frustration to cross her face before she had reworked it into a blank, impassive mask. Solveig swallowed the lump in her throat as she walked by Abelone, who gave her a curt nod in passing. She hadn't been wrong. Abelone _had_ indirectly tried to kill her, and damned if she wasn't displeased to see that her little ruse had fallen through.

Solveig glanced back at Cicero, who was astonishingly quiet. He followed with his slender arms crossed, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards, forming a small, quirky smile. It was apparent that he had witnessed Abelone's reaction as well, and had easily figured out that his suspicions were confirmed as truth. The jester may have been a madman, but he was no fool. She set down the basket of ingredients on the dresser in the room before placing Snowberry on the bed, where he quickly hunkered down in the pile of blankets with the tiniest of yawns, curling up to fall asleep.

"I'll make it fast, then we can go and get you the help you need to fix your carriage," she said, closing the door behind them, letting out a quiet groan when she realized that the only clothing or armor she had was caked in dried blood. She draped her cloak across a chair before beginning to rummage through Galmar's bag, hoping he wouldn't mind if she borrowed something that was a little less bloody to wear.

"An eye for an eye," Cicero suddenly whispered, a soft murmur that broke the tense, thrumming silence of the room. "It is only fair. Yes, it is only fair. The beautiful, cross Nord did try to kill kind Solveig, sending her to be smashed, to be squished! One drop," he continued, piercing tone hushed and frantic, tapping a bottle on the dresser that she had labeled with a skull, signifying the deadly concoction inside, before he tossed it to her. "Perhaps two, oh, but only to be sure, sure, sure that she will die!"

She caught the bottle, rolling the tiny little thing around in her palms, inspecting the clouded, murky green of the glass that held her latest mixture. It was something she had made in Yngvild, a personal recipe she had created in her never-ending quest for the perfect, undetectable poison, one that left no trace behind. Solveig continued to stare at the bottled clenched tightly in her hand, Cicero's mad whispers racing through her mind as she wondered about the possibilities.

* * *

**A/N: another chapter, up so fast! Oh, Cicero is pleased! Just kidding.**

**What's up next? Will Solveig take Cicero's advice? Are they going to take up Erandur's offer? Think Solveig will see Cicero again? Exciting things are up ahead!**


	10. A Little Less Talk, A Little More Action

**Sexy time lovers, this utterly smut-tastic chapter is for you!**

* * *

Solveig leaned across the counter of the Windpeak Inn, reaching out to fiddle with a dead, dried dartwing resting on the wood, giving the sour-faced Nord across from her the warmest, kindest smile she could muster before speaking.

"I went to Red Road Pass," she began, raising her eyes to meet Abelone's, fixing her with an intense gaze. "You were right, there were plenty of rare ingredients to be found there, so thank you! I truly appreciate it. Although…you didn't tell me that it was a giant's camp. It turned out to be quite the surprise when I stumbled across a pair of irate giants. Did you know that they were there?"

Abelone looked down quickly, wiping the counter in a steady circular motion, clearing her throat uncomfortably. "Giants?" she finally said, poorly feigning shock and surprise. "Why, I-I had absolutely no idea."

"Mm," Solveig replied, furrowing her brow, still trying to figure out what it was that Abelone had against her. She had people try to kill her before in the past, but they had always been hostile bandits or bloodthirsty vampires, but this strange antagonism from Abelone that she didn't quite understand was something new. "Well," she finally continued, catching a whiff of her blood-encrusted rancid armor as she stood back. "Thank you again."

"Of course," Abelone said, finally looking up at Solveig with a sickly, simpering smile, gritting her teeth as she spoke. "Sorry about those giants again, it's a shame."

Solveig bit her lip as the woman turn towards the dead rabbits hanging behind her, beginning to harvest the meat from them, ending their conversation. She reached towards the satchel on her hip, pulling out the tiny bottle, causing Cicero to give a tiny squeal, a strange sound that was an unusual combination of a giggle and a shriek. Turning, she placed one finger on her lips, motioning for him to be quiet, while scanning the room behind them. It was empty.

Her thumb popped off the cork, and after drawing it out of her satchel, she sent it all pouring into the ale that Abelone had drinking, quickly stuffing the empty bottle back into its hiding place afterwards.

"You're still here?" Abelone spat, no longer bothering with niceties, as she turned back towards the counter, brow creasing when she saw Solveig still standing there. She picked up the ale she had neglected and downed it, wiping her mouth once she had finished.

"I was just on my way out," Solveig replied, motioning for Cicero to follow her.

* * *

"I've been looking for you, I've got something I'm supposed to deliver for your hands only," said a courier that had been leaning against the outside of the Jarl's longhouse, shoving a small letter into Galmar's hands after he had stepped out into the brisk cold of Dawnstar. "Well, I think that's it. I'd better be going."

Galmar watched the man in his underwear trot away, sighing as he saw Ulfric's official seal closing the letter; no doubt he was going to ask what in Oblivion was taking so long. Sliding one large thumb underneath the hardened wax to break it, he flipped open the letter, groaning at what he read inside.

_The Silver-Bloods have offered their daughter, Ylva, as a marriage prospect for you. She arrived in Windhelm shortly after you left, and will be waiting upon your return. We can discuss the details of this particular alliance once you return._

_-U_

He crumpled up the letter in annoyance before stuffing it into the knapsack he carried, beginning to walk back towards the inn. The Silver-Bloods of Markarth were strong allies and supporters of Ulfric and his cause, but Galmar loathed the family of corrupt, greedy thugs, and wished that he could have absolutely nothing to do with them. He wanted to shove this marriage alliance straight up into the deep reaches of Thonar Silver-Blood's nether regions, letting the man know what he truly thought of him and his family. Pushing the door open to the inn, he quickly made his way over to an empty table, slouching down in the creaking wooden chair, motioning for the innkeeper to bring him mead.

"Can we talk?" asked an incredibly irritating and familiar voice, trying again for the second time that morning. Galmar looked up from his drink to see Abelone standing there, looking a little worse for the wear. She looked worn, exhausted, and she had a glow from the slight sheen of sweat that covered her skin.

"If you're sick, don't come near me," he snapped in irritation, watching as she took a step backwards. "Once again, there's nothin' to talk about."

"I think there is," she said defiantly, her weak voice trembling slightly. "You've seen me every time you've come here for the past five years. I just…I just thought that we had something, and I think that—"

"You think you should be the one to take Solveig's place? Get out of here," he muttered, not in the mood to continue their infuriatingly uncomfortable conversation. "Speaking of which, have you seen her?"

Abelone pursed her lips and before she could respond, the door to the Windpeak swung open and Solveig walked through, having just said her farewells to Cicero, who had only clapped his hands gleefully, telling her that he was quite certain they would meet again. She continued, looking over at the obviously ill Nord woman before walking over to Thoring.

"I need to use the bath," she said, gesturing to her body and armor, both of which were still caked in dried, rust-colored blood.

"Of course," he replied, unlocking a door behind him. "Everything you need is in there."

Galmar stood, giving Abelone a curt nod before making his way up to their bedroom to grab a worn tunic and a plain pair of trousers, heading back down towards the inn's bathing room.

"Fifty septims if you let us keep it to ourselves for a few hours," Galmar said, tossing a coin purse at the innkeeper, who caught it with surprise before nodding and opening the door for him.

* * *

By the time Galmar entered the bathing room, Solveig had already stripped down and tossed her foul armor into a cluttered, jumbled pile on the stone floor and had climbed into the large bathing area and was sitting underneath the gentle spray of the waterfall tumbling forth from the pipe in the ceiling. She instinctively raised her arms to cover her bare chest, relaxing once she saw it was him.

"Oh, it's just you. I thought it was going to be…well, never mind who I thought it would be. What are you doing?" she asked curiously, hazel eyes watching him intently as he removed his helm and set it down on a nearby table before tugging his boots off.

"What, am I not allowed to get in there as well? You're not the only one who's allowed to use this place, you know," he retorted gruffly, letting his armor fall to the floor to join hers, climbing the stairs that led to the large pool of water, trying to ignore her intense gaze. "You don't own the fucking place."

"I never said I did, and I never said you couldn't," she replied with a shrug, grabbing a misshapen lump of soap behind her as she stood up, beginning to clean off the giant's blood that had hardened into a reeking crust.

"What are you doing? Don't you know how to clean yourself properly?"

Solveig paused, opening her mouth as she tried to think of some smart retort to let him know that yes, she did know how to clean herself properly, since she was a bloody grown woman who had been taking care of herself for years without any outside assistance. She suddenly shut it, realizing that he was clumsily, brusquely attempting to relay his desire for physical contact. "Here, then," she said, pressing the slimy soap into one of his large palms, crossing her arms, watching him intently. "You do it if my methods bother you so much. I'm waiting."

He bristled uncomfortably, uncertain of where to begin, eyes raking over her form, taking in the amused expression on her face, the dried blood that still covered much of her arms and chest, her matted blonde hair, feeling strangely aroused by the sight before him. He threw the block of soap aside, causing it to land in the water with a hollow splash, before gripping her arms tightly, violently pulling her towards him. "You'll just have to keep waiting, then," he growled, hoarse, low voice creating a rumbling hum against the palm she had pressed to his chest.

She wrapped one hand around his neck and pulling his face down towards hers, soft, articulate lips kissing him calmly, chastely, breath hitching in her throat as he gripped her bottom and pulled her closer, pressing her wet, bare body flush against his arousal. This was fine, but he wanted, no, needed, so much more.

Galmar abruptly pushed her down to her knees, settling her down on the bottom of the bath with only her head and chest above the water before he took himself in one hand, using the other to guide himself into her mouth, hilting himself as deep as he possibly could. Solveig struggled against him briefly, mouth and tongue contorting, hands clenching at his thighs in a sudden panic, before she found herself able to steady her breath. He began to pump in and out of her mouth, forming a steady cadence, spurred on by the panting, tormented gurgles that would spill forth from her lips like the water from a drowning woman's throat, bringing himself closer and closer to the edge of release. Stopping suddenly, he pulled out and she gasped for air, reaching one hand up to wipe the spittle that covered her chin and mouth, clambering to her feet.

Solveig parted her lips, ready to speak, cut off when he rapidly spun her around, bending her over the worn stone bench in the bathing area, letting out a hoarse grunt as he ran his hands over her backside, stopping to smack her bare bottom, leaving a stinging, hand-shaped, red welt behind. She whimpered his name as he pressed himself against her, and he slid into her with ease, picking up the steady pace from earlier. He thrust into her without restraint, relishing her sighs, the way her white-knuckled hands gripped the edge of the stone, and he couldn't resist reaching forward to tangle one hand in her damp hair, sharply jerking back her head by the blonde locks with the fingers he had knotted in them. Solveig moaned, briefly wondering if Abelone, Thoring, or the patrons of the inn could hear them.

She moaned louder, just to ensure that they could.

"Galmar, harder," she begged, words cut off in a delicate gasp as he wrapped his spare hand around her creamy white throat, tightening his grip. He recognized the signs of her impending release, taking in the sharp arch of her spine, the way she bit her lip, the tightness around him. Solveig choked slightly, her throat fighting against his rough grasp, but suddenly it didn't matter anymore; she convulsed around him, stars swimming before her eyes as her vision dimmed, every muscle in her body quaking as she tensed around him. Galmar let out a final groan as he spent himself inside of her, tight grip on her throat slackening, something she welcomed as she hungrily gulped in fresh air, choking and gasping during the process. He pulled out before helping her to her feet, flinching as she dug her hands into his arm to steady herself, still lightheaded and breathless.

"Sorry about that, got carried away," he mumbled as he tilted her head upwards, gently pressing his lips against hers, tasting the salty tang of sweat and his own dark hungers.

* * *

"You said you wanted to talk," Solveig said excitedly, adjusting the massive tunic she was wearing. Her only armor was being cleaned by the local blacksmith, and until then, Galmar had lent her some of his spare clothing. Galmar wasn't particularly talkative, often communicating in grunts and other inhuman sounds, so she was enthused by the thought of having an actual conversation.

"I did. About a few things, actually," he replied, sighing when he saw the eager look in her eyes. Solveig certainly did love her friendly, constant chatter, and as a man of a great deal fewer words, he was having difficulty adjusting. "Where'd all that blood come from?"

"What blood?"

He groaned in frustration, running one hand down over his faced, sitting down on the end of the bed by the confused blonde, who was now reclined with her hands tucked behind her head. "The blood that was all over you when you came into the inn? The blood that took half an age to get off? Remember?"

"Oh, _that_ blood," she said, staring up at the ceiling. "It's from some giants. That Abelone woman told me about this Red Road Pass where I could find all kinds of interesting, rare ingredients. She didn't tell me it was a giant's camp, though. Luckily, I ran into this little jester fellow, and together, we managed to fight them off. Minor injuries, that's all," Solveig finished, removing her hands from behind her head so that she could inspect the cuts and scrapes all over her palms. She must have gotten them when she dove to the ground in order to avoid getting her head smashed in.

Solveig continued to inspect her hands calmly, speaking once more. "Cicero, that's the jester I was telling you about, thinks that she sent me there on purpose, that she wanted me to get smashed to death, or something along those lines. I…" she trailed off, looking up to meet his icy blue eyes. "I think he's right."

Galmar's eyes narrowed and his face reddened as he tried to calm himself, seething with a boiling, pent-up rage. "Are you sure?" he growled, already knowing the answer. From his limited experiences with Abelone, she was an incredibly jealous woman, but he was surprised that she would resort to something as intense and violent as murder.

"Yes," Solveig sighed, reaching out to him, placing a palm on one thick, muscled forearm. "Listen, don't worry about it though. We'll be gone from Dawnstar soon enough," she said with a small smile, a strange expression crossing her face. "Anything else?"

"I'm still going to talk to her, that's going too gods damned far," he muttered angrily, tossing his helm aside. "Actually, yes. Somethin' else. I got a letter from Ulfric this morning."

"And?" she asked, sitting up on the bed, pulling her knees towards her chest.

"The Silver-Bloods want me to marry their daughter once we return to Windhelm."

She sat there silently as she took in the news, casting her eyes downward, fixating on her toes, which were currently kneading at the linen sheets she was sitting upon, drawing lazy, aimless circles on the top of one foot with a finger. Letting out a sigh, she finally responded in the most impressively crestfallen and dejected tone he had ever heard. "Oh," she said, looking up to give him a small, wan smile, her eyes somber. "I understand."

"Stop your moping," he grumbled, clearing his throat. "I already made a promise to you. Besides, I can't stand those gods damned Silver-Blood, and there's no way in Oblivion anyone could force me to tie myself to one of 'em."

"Oh."

"It's why I think we should take that Dunmer fellow up on his offer, and just get it done, finish it up."

"Just get it done? Finish it up? We're talking about getting married, not building a bench."

"You know what I mean," he grunted, standing up to stretch his stiff muscles. "I'm going to go talk to Abelone, you go find the Dunmer."

* * *

Solveig sat on the dock of the small harbor in Dawnstar, legs dangling over the edge, feet skimming the surface of the freezing water below. She smoothed down her brand new master mage's robes, scarcely able to believe that the Khajiit merchants had a pair of the robes for sale, specially enchanted to aid in the casting of alteration spells. The caravan leader, Ma'dran had happily deposited the robes in her hands after she dumped a handful of jewels from their time in Yngvild into his palm.

She turned back, looking over her shoulder, wondering where Galmar and Erandur were. He had told her to wait for him out on the docks, and she found herself briefly considering the possibility that he had stood her up, that he had changed his mind about the entire arrangement. Looking up towards the night sky, she watched as the aurora danced across the dark, inky blue, finally jerked out of her stupor when she heard a quiet, accented voice speak behind her.

"Ah, there she is," said Erandur, casually strolling up towards her, Galmar trailing close behind. "We can begin, whenever you're ready."

"Let's just do this," Galmar said sternly, standing next to Solveig after she had clambered to her feet, adjusting her robes. He glared at Erandur impatiently as he began his flowery dialogue, officially beginning their small ceremony.

Solveig looked up at Galmar, letting out a snort of laughter as she took in his frown, random little grunts and growls, and furrowed brow, something that combined with his helm, made him look like a displeased little bear.

"Is there a problem?" Erandur asked, lowering his hands as he glanced between them.

"No, no…he just looks so much like an unhappy bear. You could try and look a little happier, not like you've just shit your trousers and there's nothing to be done about it," she insisted, folding her arms across her chest after angrily prodding his arm with one skinny little finger. "If you don't want to do this, just say so."

"I never said that I didn't want to," he retorted, blue eyes cross. "You're the one who's readin' into somethin' that isn't there."

"Can we continue?" Erandur interrupted politely, clasping his hands in front of him.

They both nodded, looking slightly sheepish, waiting for him to finish up his long-winded beginning, before he finally turned to Galmar. "Do you agree to be bound together in love, now and forever?"

"I do, now and forever," he mumbled, surprising her when the corners of his mouth twisted upwards to form a tiny, sincere smile.

"And you, Solveig?"

"I do, now and forever," she said, giving a pleased sigh.

"Well then," the Dunmer continued happily, his red eyes focusing on them intently. "By the authority of Mara, I declare you to be wed. You have the rings, correct?"

Galmar responded with a nod, producing a pair of rings that he had pulled from their Yngvild haul, hoping that smaller of the two actually fit her, and he wasn't left awkwardly trying to jam it onto her finger. He sighed with relief when it slid on effortlessly, slipping his own ring on after rolling it in his palm, adjusting to the sensation of the cool object encircling his index finger.

"Shall we head back to the inn?" Solveig asked, rubbing her hands together for warmth as she watched Erandur take his leave. "I do believe my tits are about to freeze off if we stay out here any longer."

"We'd best. That'd be a damn shame if that happened."

* * *

They were rapidly approaching their bedroom, and Galmar scooped Solveig up bridal-style into his arms, eliciting a giggle from the blonde he was carrying. He passed through the doorway, incorrectly judging the way he would need to maneuver through the door, causing her to smack her head hard on the doorframe. Her sudden outcry startled him, and he accidentally dropped her, and she fell hard, landing on her tailbone.

"Sorry," he muttered, helping to her feet, trying to not laugh at the awkward, absurdity of the situation, watching as she crossed the room.

Solveig kicked off her boots before settling onto the bed, reaching hands up to untie the strip of leather that held her hair in place, fingers untwisting the thick, crown-like braid that had crossed from one side of her head to the other, letting her hair down into loose, tousled waves.

"We're married now," she said, breaking the strange, silent tension that was crackling between them, mulling over her new status. "I like it."

"It's only been fifteen damn minutes; you can't say that you already like it."

"Yes, I can," she retorted defiantly, lying back on the bed. "I'll like it if I please. What happens now?"

"I suppose you'll be movin' in with me. I've got a room at the palace. It isn't much, but it's enough space for two," he replied, choosing to leave out the tiny detail that it was directly across the hall from her brother's bedroom. His new wife was a very vocal lover, and he hoped her brother found their lovemaking just as frustrating as he did Yrsarald and Ralof's loud and raucous nighttime exploits. "But as for now, let me show you what's going to happen."

He hovered over her briefly before leaning down, feeling a slight twinge of guilt as he took in the sight of the finger-shaped bruises that stood out in stark contrast to the white skin of her neck, gently tracing over the purple marks. "I hurt you."

"Hmm?" she whispered disinterestedly, fingers working to undo the buckles of his armor. "Oh, that. It's not an issue. Now, what were you saying about showing me what's going to happen?"

Galmar responded by pulling her hands away from his armor, pinning her arms above her head, marveling at how fragile and delicate her slender wrists felt underneath his grip, tracing the pad of one thumb over the blue vein pulsing underneath the white flesh. He removed his hands, allowing them to trail downward to tug gently on the hem of her robes, beginning to pull them upwards.

"Wait," she said softly, pushing him back slightly. "Perhaps it'd be best if I took those off."

He obliged as he watched her slowly shimmy out of them, left in nothing but her smallclothes, recalling how he accidentally destroyed her previous robes when they were in Yngvild. She casually tossed them aside, once again reaching upwards to work on his armor, satisfied once it had clattered to the floor. Her hands skittered across his chest, tracing along the scars that dotted his chest. "From the Great War?" she asked, withdrawing her hands after he had responded with a nod.

"This isn't the time to talk about war," he grunted, attempting to undo the ties of her smallclothes, silently cursing to himself as he wondered why she had to tie them in fancy bows and knots, making them damn near impossible to simply undo.

"I was just a little girl at the time," she continued, voice muffled when he had clapped a hand over her mouth. She was being far too talkative.

"Stop, dammit. You're making me feel old," he griped, replacing the hand that covered her lips with his mouth, pulling away after a few seconds to continue the seemingly impossible task of removing her smallclothes.

"Here," she finally said, voice soft as she reached up to undo the ties, tossing the linen coverings to the floor, leaving herself bare before him. "Better?"

"Much," he groaned, grabbing her waist so that he could roll over, leaving her straddling his hips, letting out a grunt of frustration as she began to grind herself against his length. He sat up, wrapping his arms around her, nipping at her prominent collarbone as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, something that sent shivers darting across her skin.

"I want you," she breathed, voice becoming low and husky, pushing him backwards, so that he was lying down on his back once more. Solveig raised her hips slightly as she reached down, guiding himself into her slick heat, groaning as he raised his hips ever so slightly, wishing he could push deeper. He gripped her thighs as she began to move up and down, and she placed her hands on his chest to steady herself. She let out a moan when he reached up to take her breasts in his hands, swirling his tongue around each stiff peak once he had raised his mouth to meet them, listening as her cries escalated in volume and intensity. Galmar rapidly reached up to grasp her arms, flipping her over so that he was on top, wanting to see her face, to look into her eyes, when she climaxed. He twisted himself so that he had settled in between her thighs, feeling himself twitch as she clawed at the bed sheets below as he entered her once more, his mouth muffling the satisfied, keening sigh that had just drained from her lips.

He thrust into her, picking up the pace as she clutched at his arms, begging, pleading for him to fuck her, to fill her. Galmar lowered his forehead so that it was pressed against hers; cradling her head with one hand as his back and stomach muscles clenched and contracted in his quest for self-restraint. She gave a strangled moan from deep in the back of her throat as he pushed into her harder and faster, the sounds of her pleasure swelling, signaling the oncoming release that could no longer be contained. He continued to ride against her wet and sensitive flesh, watching as her eyes rolled back in her head, until he came undone by the feel of the shuddering quake of her body, and her warm breath ghosting across his scarred, stubble-covered cheek.

Galmar collapsed on top of her, entirely spent, lying tangled with her afterwards, inhaling her scent as he raised her hand to his mouth, pressing calloused lips against the palm, stretching out the moment for as long as possible. They lay entwined together, exchanging harsh, passionate kisses, murmuring and whispering about the present and the future, until the lassitude that weighed upon them carried them off into a deep, satisfied slumber.

* * *

They were awoken early in the morning, well before dawn, by a long, high-pitched frantic scream that seemed to pierce through the thick wooden walls of the inn, jostling all who heard it from sleep.

Solveig sat up wearily, rubbing at her eyes, pulling blankets up to cover her chest as she slowly woke up, ignoring the colorful curses that Galmar was already muttering.

"What in Oblivion is that? Whoever it is, they'd better have a damn good reason for screamin' like their asshole is on fire at this hour," he muttered grouchily, pulling on a worn shirt and trousers, waiting as she groggily tugged her robes down over her head. Solveig followed him out of their room, towards the main room of the inn, joining the throng of curious onlookers that had already gathered.

Karita, the bard and innkeeper's daughter, had made a gruesome discovery when she had crept up from her room in the cellar to get an early start for the day. Abelone lay crumpled on the floor, limbs askew in the most awkward and uncomfortable of positions, cloudy, white eyes wide open, black, swollen tongue flopping out of her slack jawed mouth. She was incredibly, obviously dead.

Thoring reached over to comfort his sobbing, shaken daughter, guiding the lovely young bard away from the sight before them before setting off to the Jarl's longhouse to seek the assistance of the captain of the guard.

"Sh-she seemed so sick yesterday, but she wouldn't go see Frida to get a potion," Karita sobbed, averting her eyes.

Galmar guided Solveig away from Abelone's body, feeling ashamed when he felt no pity or remorse for the woman lying dead on the floor of the inn, motioning for her to take a seat at an empty table. She stood; face impassive as she gazed upon the deceased woman.

"I'll be right back, I need to get my shoes," she said, gesturing to her bare feet. She darted away, glancing back at the corpse as she passed by, returning after a few minutes, joining Galmar at the table he had seated himself at.

"Poor woman, Divines rest her soul," Erandur said, leaning over from a nearby chair. "She seemed like such a lovely and kind young woman, too," he continued, clucking slightly as he shook his head. Galmar crossed his arms and grunted, choosing to bite his tongue. Abelone had been anything but lovely and kind.

"Can't say I knew her," interjected a handsome, red-headed man sitting at the same table as Erandur, scratching his thick beard as he craned his neck to see the body once more, nonplussed by the sight. He shrugged, leaning back against the chair he was lounging in, running one hand through his shoulder-length locks.

"Does death not bother you, Thorek?" the Dunmer asked, staring at his companion inquisitively.

The man shrugged, adjusting his cloak, allowing the briefest flash of red and black armor to peek through. "Can't say it does; I see it a lot in my line of work."

"What line of work are you in?" Solveig asked, propping her chin on a balled up fist as she leaned forward, eager to hear his answer.

Before the stranger could respond, Galmar cleared his throat as he stood. "As much as I'd love to sit here and make chit chat about pointless shit, I'd rather sleep. I'm going back to bed."

* * *

Galmar trudged up to their bedroom, shutting the door behind him with a sigh. Solveig had stayed to talk more with Erandur and the stranger that was seated with him, and he had left after just a few minutes, having been irritable, exhausted, and not caring about idle, pointless conversation. He had planned to tumble into bed and fall asleep immediately, but he let out a series of irritated grunts as he gazed about the wreck of a room.

In the few short days since they had first settled down in their temporary room, Solveig had created a mess, leaving her belongings strewn across the furniture and the floor. He lifted her knapsack off the bed with a string of irritated curses, wondering if he had a lifetime of her messiness and hoarding to look forward, tossing it onto the floor next to the bed. A tattered little journal tumbled out and landed in front of Snowberry, who lifted his head and gazed at the object disinterestedly before returning to his nap with a tiny groan.

Galmar strode over to the journal, a tiny voice in his head telling him to not pick up the journal, to certainly not read it, but his nosiness had gotten the best of him, and he found himself fumbling to quickly light a candle. Before he knew it, he was lounging on the bed, thumbing through the worn, yellowed pages, reading the tiny, neat script. It appeared to be nothing more than notes on her alchemy experiments, detailing what ingredients were involved, how much was to be used, and the effects that they had. He read further, feeling slightly uneasy when he reached pages detailing poisons. Finally, he flipped to the end, surprised to see the latest entry was from their time in Dawnstar, stomach beginning to churn once he began to read the dark, crisp black script.

_Subject: Female Nord, early to mid-twenties._

_Accidentally used the entire bottle. However, this particular recipe appears to have no taste, as the subject seemed to not notice any difference in their ale._

He frowned, furrowing his brow as he turned to the next page, continuing the detailed analysis of the poison's effects.

_This seems to be a poison with slow effects, and some symptoms manifest the same as they would if they were the Rattles. The subject seemed to tire, and stay tired, more quickly, before developing an intense fever. _

_Around roughly a day past administration, the subject expired. Unfortunately, the poison was not entirely undetectable, since upon inspection after death, the subject's tongue swelled and turned black and the pupils of the eyes became clouded, turning a milky white. _

Galmar stared at the journal entry, at the writing that seemed to be so nonchalant and casual, as though the author were simply describing a pleasant afternoon walk along the docks. He ran one hand down over his face, foot tapping frantically as he tried to process the information he had just received, still trying to believe what his mind was so desperately trying to make clear to him.

Solveig, his lovely, beautiful, kind, and charming wife, was apparently a cold-blooded murderess.

He stood rapidly pacing back and forth throughout the enclosed space for several minutes, muttering to himself all the while before opening the alchemy journal back up to the last entry and ripping the page out, crumpling it in one large hand before heading back downstairs. The page was clenched tightly in his hand as he made his way back towards the main hall of the inn, spying Solveig now sitting alone at the small table he had left her at. Galmar took a deep breath, working through what he was going to say when she suddenly looked up and gave him a warm smile, looking genuinely happy to see him.

"Need something?" she asked, reaching out to grab his hand, slim fingers lazing linking their way through his. He almost instinctively pulled away before relaxing; he was having trouble getting used to all of these affectionate, often public, gestures that she made towards him.

Galmar paused, rolling the paper around in his palm. "No, it's nothing. Coming back to bed soon?"

"I will," she replied, polishing off the last of her cup of milk, giving him another smile before walking ahead of him towards their room. He stopped briefly by the fire pit in the center of the room, tossing the page he had ripped from her journal into it, watching as the flames quickly turned all evidence of her wrongdoing to ash.

* * *

**A/N: Well, writing all that smut was exhausting! Time for a nap. As always, reviews, follows, and favorites are love. 3**


	11. Surprise!

Galmar had been hoping to get a few more hours of sleep once he convinced Solveig to return to bed, but he was awakened only one short hour later by the brisk, frigid chill that had settled deep into his bones. He looked down to see that the thick furs and blankets he had covered himself in to drive away the freeze of the northern city were all gone, and he was left shivering in the early morning hours. Solveig had stolen them all, and had wound them around her body in a tight cocoon. Reaching over, he gave a small tug, hoping to reclaim some, but it was to no avail. She made an angry, sleepy sound, a cross between a growl and a snort, and rolled over, clenching the blankets tighter around her body, ensuring that there was no way he would be able to retrieve any of them.

Letting out an irritated sigh, he slowly climbed out of bed, grunting as his stiff, aching muscles and joints protested, shuffling across the floor towards the heaping pile she had put his armor in, groggily pulling it on. If he wasn't going to be able to sleep, he figured he might as well start his day and hopefully get this business with Skald over as quickly as possible.

"Don't sleep for too much longer," he said, jostling her shoulder slightly, wondering if she would even process anything he told her. "Pack everything up, and meet me at the Jarl's longhouse as soon as you can. We'll leave from there."

On his way out, he paused ever so briefly, glancing backwards at the woman sleeping calmly, innocently in the bed, the woman he had married the previous night, who was evidently not averse to furtively dumping toxic potions into the drinks of her enemies. He sighed, wondering if he had made a mistake; after all, he barely knew the woman. However, his parents had married after knowing each other for less than a month, and they had turned out fine. Despite having that thought to comfort himself, he was left wondering what exactly he had gotten himself into, and if he had just married a woman that was an insane, murderous alchemist. Solveig suddenly stretched, flinging some of the blankets aside, revealing her bare body beneath, and Galmar found himself giving an appreciative grunt after taking in the sight.

_That_ was what he had gotten himself into.

She made one more annoyed sound before rolling over and pulling the blankets back over her chest, and he left her tangled up in her warm, furry bindings to go seek out Skald. Galmar glanced over at the spot where Abelone's body had lain just a few hours before, relieved to see that it was removed, hoping that there were no further questions into her death. Stepping out of the inn, he set off towards the White Hall, hoping that after a stern word with Skald, they could get the blazes out of Dawnstar and back to Windhelm.

A heavy snow had fallen the previous night, leaving the city an icy, snow-dusted wonderland that glimmered sharply in the early morning sun, and he slogged and crunched his way through the thick covering on the ground, nodding at the guards as he passed by them. Skald was supposed to have returned by now, and as much as he didn't want to talk to the man himself, he knew it was necessary. Letting out a groan, he pushed open the door to the Jarl's longhouse, readying himself for what was likely going to be an incredibly infuriating, frustrating, encounter.

He stepped inside, grateful for the warmth of the roaring hearth fire in the long, shallow pit in the center of the room, surprised to see Jod, in what appeared to be a worried, frantic, animated frenzy, discussing something with one of his guards in a quiet, hushed tone. The guard captain looked up at Galmar's approaching footsteps, placing a hand on his current conversation partner's shoulder before directing him out, turning his attention to Galmar once he had closed the distance between them.

"General," he began, summoning a weary smile, directing him to take a seat at a small table for two off to the side. "I'm assuming you're here to talk to the Jarl."

"Aye, I am. Is he here? I was told that he would be returning today, early this morning and would be ready for me then."

Jod ran one hand down over his tired, exhausted face, letting out a groan that hissed and whistled through his clenched teeth. "I'm afraid that's not going to be possible, at least not for now."

Galmar gave the man a harsh, withering glare, in spite of the fact that he likely had nothing to do with Skald's unavailability. "Why not? I've been waiting for that ass to return from his hunting trip for days now. Where the fuck is he?"

"He's here, but he's just…he's taking a nap. He said he didn't want to be interrupted. Believe me, you don't want to bother with the man if he's been woken from his nap early."

"I need to talk to him," Galmar growled, pounding a large, balled up fist on the table, sending the forks and tankards jumping.

"Do you think you're the only one?" Jod whispered, wringing his hands as he looked over his shoulder, not wanting the Jarl to come out to interrupt their conversation. "You're not, General. Things have gotten even worse in Dawnstar, I'm not sure how or why. First that young Abelone woman turns up dead this morning, gods knows why, and then Beitild, a mine boss here, was murdered in her sleep. One of her workers found her when she didn't show up this morning."

Galmar bristled at the mention of Abelone, feeling a strange sense of relief at the mention of the other dead woman, the one who was obviously murdered for certain. Perhaps, just perhaps, her death could distract Dawnstar from Abelone's. "Have you looked into this at all?"

"I was actually going to make my way over to her home, take a look myself. You can come along, if you want. Hopefully by the time we get back, the Jarl will have dragged his ass out of his bed."

* * *

Solveig slowly shuffled her way downstairs after pulling on a robe and her boots, wondering where Galmar had gone off to. He had grunted something at her early in the morning, but she hadn't exactly been in the state to comprehend what he had told her.

"Mornin'," Thoring the innkeeper called out to her as she entered the main area of the inn and soon settled herself down at a table close to the roaring fire. "I'll bring you over something to eat."

He strode over to her with a small plate heaping with fried horker meat, soft white bread smothered with snowberry jam, and eggs, setting it down in front of her with a sigh. "I don't know what I'll do without Abelone to help me out around here. Such a shame that she died so young," he began sadly, casting his eyes downwards. Solveig felt the tiniest twinge of remorse, but brushed it aside before turning all of her attention to devouring her eggs, hoping he would soon leave and end their one-sided conversation.

"Now another one," he murmured, obviously showing no sign of stopping, crossing his arms as he stared upwards towards the ceiling, silently watching tendrils of smoke drift upwards before vanishing. "Deaths, these nightmares, the war…I'm just not sure what's happening to Dawnstar these days."

Solveig looked up from her meal, finally breaking her silence, asking a question directed at no one in particular. "Another death? Who died?"

"Beitild. She owned Iron-Breaker Mine here in town. Must've died sometime last night, I suppose," Thoring mused, finally leaving to being the task of cleaning and polishing the inn's many tankards.

The red-haired man named Thorek that she had met earlier was seated at the table next to her, silently watching her with an intense, amused expression. He stood, adjusting his cloak, letting her catch a glimpse of the same red and black armor he was wearing as he strode over to Solveig, pulling on his gloves before speaking.

"It was a pleasure to meet you," he said with a nod and the tiniest, knowing smile. "I'm afraid I must take my leave now, though. I promised that Erandur fellow I'd give him a bit of help, and my…business here in Dawnstar is concluded," Thorek paused, leaning down to whisper one final thing in her ear.

"I know what you did," he breathed, seemingly taking delight in the way she clenched her fork and her eyes widened in panic, his manic grin growing ever wider. "So clever, using a poison. You just didn't get it quite right, though. Not entirely undetectable, and you really should check your surroundings much better before you decide to take someone's life. Perhaps a little more practice, and you'll get it perfect. I'm certain you and I will be seeing each other again."

He stood abruptly, flashing her one last smile and a wink before starting off, his black cloak swirling around him as he crossed the room towards the exit, leaving her to silently panic and worry. Solveig pushed her plate away, her stomach churning with uneasiness.

All of a sudden, she didn't feel so hungry.

* * *

Galmar returned with Jod after helping him and a few members of the guard investigate the dead woman's home. After milling about her former home for about an hour, they had discovered little that would be of aid, and he hoped that the mysterious aura surrounding the mine boss' death would hold the rapt attention of Dawnstar for the time being.

"I just don't understand," Jod said, his defeated tone pulling Galmar back to the present situation. "Throat slashed, no sign of a struggle or forced entry…" he trailed off, rubbing one hand over the thin, fuzzy crop of hair that covered his head. "I'll need to think on this. It could be her ex-husband; it could also be someone else. Hopefully Skald is ready to do something now."

Once they had entered the White Hall, the two men were both pleased to see Skald finally up and about, lounging about lazily on his Jarl's throne, contentedly munching on a piece of bread. He looked up as they entered, turning back to the meal clutched in one wrinkled hand, obviously not interested in the presence of either one of them.

"My Jarl, we need to discuss the deaths of the two women that occurred last night," Jod began, shutting his mouth abruptly once Skald held up one hand to indicate for him to be silent.

"I don't want to hear about it, Jod," he Jarl drawled lazily, his rough, grating voice expressing his irritation with his breakfast interrupted. "You're the captain of the guard, I trust you to handle these things so I don't have to! Take care of it."

"There are times for a Jarl to step in, to pay mind to what's happening in his hold," Galmar interjected, fixing Skald with a fierce stare. "It would appear that this is one of those times, Skald. I've heard plenty during my short time here that has led me to believe that you may be an unfit ruler for the Pale."

Skald stood, fixating on Galmar with a searing glare, mouth pressing itself into a thin-lipped, furious scowl. "Unfit to rule? Who are you to say that? How dare you! I've been the Jarl of Dawnstar for over three decades! Look around you," he said, gesturing wildly, arms flailing about, making him appear as though he were some sort of frantic, elderly bird. "Look at what I've done to the Pale."

"Yes," Galmar remarked wryly, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "I've heard plenty about what you've done to your hold. Mind that you're next to Haafingar, a hold directly under Imperial control, and there have been reports of Imperials setting up multiple camps in the Pale, something that seems to concern you far too little, Skald. To make matters worse, you're neglecting your hold? You've done nothing to take care of these deaths, the nightmares, or the other problems that plague Dawnstar."

The Jarl gave an arrogant snort of derision, waving one hand at Galmar, rolling his eyes throughout the process. "Have you forgotten all of the troops that I've recruited for Ulfric's cause? Does that not matter?"

"It is certainly appreciated, and it greatly aids our efforts against the Legion," Galmar admitted gruffly, brow creasing. "However appreciated they may be by the Stormcloak forces, recruits are one of your last priorities. Protecting and serving your people comes before any military recruiting."

"I'm done discussing this," Skald snapped, clapping his hands, motioning for his downtrodden servant to step forward. "Be on your way, General."

Galmar turned on his heel to leave, catching Jod's eye as he left, giving the most furtive nod he could muster, indicating that he understood the one word that the guard captain silently mouthed at him as their eyes met.

_Soon._

* * *

If he hadn't been ever so slightly concerned about the possibility of finding an unpleasant and deadly concoction of nightshade, deathbell, and gods knows what else in his next ale, Galmar Stone-Fist may have just left his new wife stranded on some freezing, forsaken iceberg floating far off the coast in the Sea of Ghosts, or pushed her over the edge of the small watercraft, tumbling into the glacial waters below.

He had hoped to be in Winterhold in no time, hiring Harlaug, a ferryman meandering around the harbor to take them to Windhelm, with a quick stop for her to drop off that damned helm for Jarl Korir. However, she had delayed their departure by not having anything packed or by being even remotely close to being ready to leave, and after an hour of travel, she realized that she left the helm of Winterhold sitting back on the dresser in their rented room in Dawnstar. After turning around to retrieve it, they were finally on their way, and she had found another entirely new way to annoy and frustrate him for the rest of the voyage.

Shortly after leaving Dawnstar for the second time, she had launched into a continuous, never-ending, ear-grating, and tuneless version of Ragnar the Red, mumbling or making up the lines that she didn't know, creating her own version, which was somehow truly more horrific than the original. Snowberry had joined in, excitedly howling, yipping, and yowling along with his mistress. The blistering cold winds had picked up as the small boat carried them closer and closer towards their brief stop in Winterhold, and instead of her words drifting away and vanishing with the harsh winds, they only seemed to be carried directly to his ears.

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. Consequences be damned, he had to say something to her to make her stop.

"Shut it, will you?" he finally snapped angrily, yanking his helm down further over his ears, driving out the cold and the horrible sound. Solveig looked up in surprise at his harsh tone and Snowberry suddenly stopped his accompanying wails, letting out a tiny, frightened whine. "You're about to make everyone crazy enough to jump out of the damned boat, just to get away."

"Harlaug doesn't seem to mind, and Snowberry is enjoying it," she sniffed, folding her arms over her chest.

"The only reason he's makin' those awful sounds is because you sound like you're dyin' over there. Enough," he griped again, hoping she would call it quits.

Solveig scowled at him before scooping up Snowberry, turning to engage the ferryman in conversation, muttering something that sounded like 'ass' before ignoring Galmar completely.

He wondered if he would pay for it later, but at the moment, he cared little. If she were to poison him tonight, at least he would die sane, without his ears still ringing from Tamriel's worst rendition of an already obnoxious, intolerable tavern song.

* * *

Galmar leaned back against the uncomfortable wooden bench of the tiny boat, hearing nothing but the gentle lapping of lazy waves at the side of the craft. Solveig had darted up to Winterhold as soon as Harlaug steered them towards the shore, incredibly smug and eager to deposit the helm in the Jarl's hands. He had elected to stay behind, wishing for a few moments of peace before they cast off for Windhelm, wanting nothing but quiet and to be left alone with his thoughts.

She had given no indication that she had opened her alchemy journal and had found that her latest entry had been torn away, and he was hoping that she wouldn't discover it until they had landed safely in Windhelm, and they could discuss it privately there. He shifted slightly, wishing that the benches of the boat weren't so narrow, trying to find a more comfortable position as he mulled over what she had done.

Before they had left, her brother had insisted that he do everything in his power to protect her, to ensure that she returned back to Eastmarch safely, painting her as a naïve, kind, harmless, weak, somewhat stupid, little damsel in need of a man's help and protection.

Galmar had discovered the opposite.

Although he had witnessed that she could be painfully oblivious and forgetful, she had proven herself to be a clever, formidable force in battle, rapidly incinerating her enemies after paralyzing them, even more powerful foes, such as the draugr fucker that dwelled in Yngvild. She obviously wasn't nearly as innocent as Yrsarald portrayed her, and he thought back to the cold execution of the murder she committed in Dawnstar, something that indicated that she was likely filled with all kinds of delightfully dangerous surprises.

The thing that surprised him most was that he wasn't nearly as bothered by it as he should have been. He had always hoped that when he married, his wife would be fierce, strong, brave, and capable of handling herself, and it appeared that he had gotten exactly what he had wished for.

"You should have seen his face!" called out a haughty, gleeful voice that pulled him out of his contemplations, and he looked up to see Solveig, rapidly approaching the boat. "Korir was absolutely furious. He offered me 500 septims, but I told him to keep it, put it towards doing some good in his hold, so hopefully he'll do that. For some reason, I doubt he will. Miss me?" she asked, squeezing his arm playfully, laughing when he only sniffed at her in response.

"I'm going to take that as a yes," she said, settling next to him, scooting over so that her side was pressed against his, leaning her head down to rest on his shoulder. "Let's hurry up and get back to Windhelm. I think I've had enough of this travelling. I'd like to stay put for a while."

* * *

They reached the docks of Windhelm at dawn thanks to Harlaug's swift, steady rowing throughout the night, relieved to be stepping off onto solid, stable ground once more. The seas had become choppy and violent during their nighttime journey, and Solveig had spent most of the early hours of the morning violently retching over the side of the boat, with Galmar holding her hair back for her.

"Good, we're finally back," she sighed, face pale and sallow as she took his arm, stumbling forward slightly as she stepped off onto the dock. He caught her, helping her steady her wobbling, trembling legs. "Thank you."

"You should rest once we get back to the Palace," he muttered, inspecting her once again. She looked ready to empty her stomach once more, and he'd prefer if she didn't do it all over his boots again. "Lie down."

She nodded, swallowing hard as she followed him up the steps that led into the city, clutching her stomach with both hands as she carefully ascended the icy steps, not wanting to slip and fall and add bruises and broken limbs to the list of unpleasant ailments she was currently grappling with. Solveig desired nothing more than to lie down with some hot tea and sleep off her stomach troubles, so she trailed after him as swiftly and quietly as she could, giving the tiniest sigh of relief when they approached the looming palace. He led her through the great main hall of the palace; back through the war room she had first met him in, guiding her through a narrow hallway before stopping in front of a door, flinging it open.

"My," he began, stopping and correcting himself quickly. "_Our_ room," he continued, using the accurate term as he gestured around the large space.

Solveig smiled as she stepped inside, placing her knapsack on the floor by a small table, running her hands along the wall as she looked around. "It's lovely."

"Stop your lying," he mumbled, shutting the door behind him before depositing his own bags on the floor, scowling as he stared at her. It was a man's room, filled with weapons and armor, not some prissy noblewoman's dainty little sitting room. Lovely was the last word he would have used to describe it. "It isn't lovely. Don't call it that again."

She pulled her robes off over her head, kicking off her boots before lying down on the massive bed that he had once had all to himself. "I think I'm going to sleep for a while," she yawned, lazily stretching one hand upwards to cover her mouth, motioning for him to come over as she slid underneath the soft, clean blankets. "You should come, too. Take off that dirty armor. I know you couldn't have slept well either, so join me."

Galmar nodded, knowing full well that she was right. Between her loud, constant vomiting, the unsteady, stomach-churning rock of the boat, and Snowberry's random howls, he hadn't been able to sleep at all. He knew he should tell Ulfric that he had returned and should get back to handling the new recruits, but to his foggy, sleep-deprived mind, a nap with a beautiful, half-naked woman that he had just married seemed like the best thing to do at the moment.

After removing his armor and slipping into the bed alongside her, he quickly drifted off, savoring the feel of her head against his chest, her heart beating against, feeling incredibly, wonderfully satisfied.

* * *

A sharp, rapping knock stirred Galmar from his slumber and he sat up slowly, glaring towards the source of the noise, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he clambered out of bed, pulling a pair of trousers on, choosing to forego a shirt altogether. He glanced backwards at Solveig one last time, who was still immersed in a deep, wheezing, slumber, not bothered by the obnoxious knocking in the slightest. He flung open the door, groaning when he saw who was on the other side.

"General! You've returned. I heard from Sifnar, he said he saw you passing thorugh. I do hope all went well," Yrsarald said, smiling at him as he scratched at his beard, reaching out one hand to give him a hearty clap on the shoulder. "How was my sister? Is she alright? Do you know where she is?"

Galmar grunted, scratching at his head, not certain of what he should say. He was mulling over what the best response might be when Yrsarald suddenly pushed past him, fixated on something behind him, something lying near-naked and asleep in his bed. Solveig's brother stared at her for a few seconds, mouth agape before turning back to Galmar, looking back and forth between the two of them for several seconds, a remarkable parade of emotions dancing across his face in just mere seconds: shock, frustration, bewilderment and anger all made an appearance, along with a few that Galmar wasn't quite sure of what they were exactly.

Yrsarald raised one hand, pointing to his sister, who was still fast asleep in his commanding officer's bed, seething with fury as he choked out one sentence.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

* * *

**A/N: Welp, that wasn't exactly the best way for Yrsarald to find out, ehh? Next chapter is a brother-sister talk, Solveig takes the oath and learns what she'll be doing as a Stormcloak, and she'll meet a few new people. Thanks for all of the continuing support! :)**

**To A big fan: Aww, thank you so much! I'm glad you're gonna stick around and pitch up tent here for a while, and I'd love to hear from you again. Now, to answer your question of when Solveig was able to write it all down in her creepy little journal. She poisoned Abelone right after she got back from the giant's camp, and Abelone died sometime that night. Karita, Windpeak's bard, made the discovery very early in the morning, and her loud freaking out is what drew people downstairs after she woke them all up. Remember when Solveig ran upstairs right after checking out the dead body along with everyone else, saying that she needed to get her boots? That's when she wrote down what she saw in her journal. ;)**


	12. Venom and Blood

Yrsarald stood shaking silently for several seconds after his furious inquiry, his loud, brash, angry tone rousing Snowberry from his sleep. The little wolf growled at Solveig's brother, baring his teeth as he raised his hackles, staring the Nord man down. Ralof had heard the loud commotion, and had slipped into Galmar's room as furtively and quietly as he possibly could, eyes dancing with delight and amusement as he watched the situation currently unfolding in front of him.

"And what the fuck is that? Is that an ice wolf?" he spat, still trying to process the situation, his shrill voice increasing in volume, something that finally woke Solveig up as well. He glared, looking back and forth between Galmar and Solveig before finally speaking again, turning his full attention to the frowning Stormcloak General. "Answer me! Did you use your position to take advantage of my sister?"

"Oh, enough Yrsarald," Solveig sighed, walking over to join them, her mage's robes back on, looking exasperated with her brother, the tiniest little smirk beginning to twitch at the corners of her lips. "He didn't take advantage of me, although…I can say that he is familiar with all kinds of positions."

Ralof let out a loud snort, his shoulders shaking with laughter, walking over to Solveig, throwing his arm around her shoulders once he had arrived by her side. "Sol," he began, reaching up to wipe away the delighted tears that had begun to leak from the corners of his eyes. "All you had to do was kill an ice wraith; you didn't have to fuck the General! Though, I do admire your commitment to the cause."

Solveig laughed, playfully swatting at him, ignoring her brother's smoldering glare and Galmar's obvious exasperation. "Well," she said, reaching down, twisting the ring on her index finger nervously. "There's something else."

Yrsarald's eyes followed her hands, watching her spin the ring around her finger, eyes widening in realization, feeling his stomach churn as a very shocking, unpleasant mental image of his commanding officer, hovering over his sister, crushing her with his big, sweaty, naked body. All of a sudden, a heavy wave of nasty emotions washed over him, and it all quickly became far too much for him to handle. He spun around, raising his hand, slapping Galmar across the face, leaving everyone in the room stunned after the sharp crack echoed across the stone. He turned to leave, but whipped back around and threw his arm back, somehow feeling as though his slap didn't adequately portray how he was feeling, smashing his fist into Galmar's nose, causing the stunned man to stumble backwards, clutching at his face.

Solveig caught her husband's arm, trying to calm down the violent, bear-like man that was ready to charge after her brother, summoning a calming spell in one of her hands, loosening her grip on Galmar once she had cast the spell, watching as the glimmering light of magicka swam over him. He stood there, reaching up to wipe away the blood that was steadily streaming out of his smashed nose.

"Ralof," she said, looking up at the blonde man who was currently trying to stifle another bout of laughter. "Would you find my brother? Perhaps get him to calm down a bit?"

She sighed, turning her attention to Galmar, who was now sitting silently on the edge of the bed, frowning at the floor. "I'll be right back, so just stay there," she said, returning after a few minutes with a rag and a washbasin full of clean water. She gently prodded his nose a few times, causing him to grunt in pain.

"Stop it," he mumbled, brushing her hands away, flinching as her slim fingers dug into the already tender, swollen flesh at the center of his face. "What the fuck are you jabbing my face for?"

"I'm seeing if your nose is broken. Just hold still, please," Solveig replied calmly, wringing out the wet rag before beginning to wipe away the blood.

"I can do this myself, I'm a grown ass man," he griped, crossing his thick, muscular arms. Despite his protestations he made no move to force her to stop and instead sat silently, waiting for her to finish.

"I'm quite certain you can," she said disinterestedly, continuing her work. She finally tossed the bloodied rag back into the washbasin, watching as the clean water slowly turned into a dim, clouded red before turning her full attention back to him, taking one of his massive hands in hers. "There, I'm all done. I'm sorry about that, by the way. I honestly didn't know that he would react so violently. I knew he would be displeased at first, but I didn't expect him to punch you in the face."

"You don't sound too worried about it," Galmar noted, raising an eyebrow as he looked at her.

"I'm not," she said, leaving his side to lie back down on the bed, tangling herself in the heavy blankets with a sigh. "He'll get over it eventually. Sometimes, he can be a tad bit…emotional. He'll sulk, he'll mope, and he'll whine, but he'll eventually get over it. Now, I think I'm going to get back to trying to get some rest."

"You don't say," he said sarcastically, running one had through his grey hair, grimacing at the rough, gritty sensation of salt left behind by the sea spray, desperately wanting a bath. He looked up at her, lounging comfortably on the bed, knowing that it was now or never. "There's something I want to talk about you," he began, cautious, hesitant words rolling off of his tongue, waiting as she sat back up. She had her head cocked to one side and her hazel eyes watched him curiously, contemplating his sudden change of tone.

"Yes? Is something wrong?"

_Is something wrong._ He mulled over the words, raising a hand to gnaw nervously at his jagged, dirty fingernails, an awful, nasty habit that he thought he had broken long ago. He exhaled, tapping his foot nervously, the panicked, erratic sound echoing softly throughout the room. "I don't know. Perhaps," he finally responded, hoping he was taking the correct approach. She raised her eyebrows, frowning as she drew her knees to her chest, waiting for him to continue. His foot stopped bouncing, and he looked up at her, taking a deep breath before he took the most straightforward tactic possible. "I know what you did in Dawnstar."

Much to his surprise, her face remained impassive as she stood up and walked around the edge of the bed, finally settling herself down next to him once more, intense eyes boring into him. "I know," Solveig said simply, eyes never leaving his. "I figured it out when I looked in my journal, and I saw that the entry was gone. You were the only one who could have taken it."

Galmar hadn't expected a response so calm, so collected. He cleared his throat to buy time, but before he could respond in any form, Solveig had already begun to speak again.

"I know it was wrong, that I shouldn't have done it," she whispered softly, tears forming in her eyes as she looked down at her feet. "That jester got to me, though. He just wormed his way inside my head; he kept telling me that it was only fair since she tried to take my life, it was only fair. I shouldn't have listened."

"It'll be fine," he said, placing one massive arm around her shoulder, awkwardly placing a gentle kiss on one of her temple. "I destroyed that page," Galmar admitted, his admission causing her to look up at him in surprise. "It wasn't completely unwarranted, just…just don't do it again," he commanded lamely, and she nodded, reaching up to wipe tears away from her eyes. "At least no one but us knows, and we should keep it that way."

"Actually, it's not just us. That man, the fellow named Thorek, he told me that he knew what I had done," she said, cutting Galmar off as soon as he had opened his mouth to reply. "He didn't seem interested in turning me in; he seemed interested for…for other reasons. He said he would see me again, and soon."

Galmar grunted, brow creasing as he considered what she had just revealed to him, tightening his grip around her shoulder. "Are you sure about him?"

"I am. I wasn't so sure before, but I know where I've seen his armor, that red and black that he wore. It came to me right before we arrived here in Windhelm."

"And?"

Solveig looked down at her hands, wriggling the fingers that she had laced together, biting her lip nervously, wondering if she should even continue. "Back in Falkreath, my home wasn't too far from this massive black door, an awful, creepy, formidable thing with a skull on it, I saw people coming in and out of the door, wearing the red and black," she paused, inhaling shakily. "Galmar, I think I'm going to get a visit from the Dark Brotherhood."

* * *

Galmar had made his way to the war room, pausing outside the door, hovering slightly, thinking of what he should say to him, eventually deciding that the most direct approach would likely be the best one to pursue. He stepped through the doorway of the war room, glad to see that Ulfric was alone, currently leaning over the map, adjusting the little blue and red markers that had somehow toppled over.

"Ah, Galmar. It's good to see that you've returned, old friend," the Jarl said, his rich timbre the usual calm and collected, straightening up as Galmar entered the room. "I trust your journey went well, the issues with the Jarls have been sorted out, and we've yet another recruit to add to our ranks? The Silver-Blood family is here, and they're quite anxious for their daughter to meet you."

"I got married," Galmar said bluntly, watching as Ulfric's brow furrowed, forming thick, angry lines on his forehead, and the corners of his mouth jerked downwards.

"Married?" he asked, looking at him with a mixture of surprise and annoyance, sighing in frustration. "You _cannot_ be serious. Who is she?"

"Solveig Thrice-Pierced, Yrsarald's sister. She's a good woman," he responded, recalling how she disliked her own surname, briefly wondering if she would like to take his. He made a mental note to broach the topic next time he saw her. "There was a priest of Mara in Dawnstar. We married there."

Ulfric groaned, his face contorting to reveal just how displeased he was. "Galmar, do you know displeased the Silver-Bloods are going to be? I wish you would have consulted me first in regards to this. I arranged this-"

Galmar shrugged, obviously unconcerned with the Silver-Blood related aftermath. "You know I don't give two shits about that family, and I certainly am not too worried about displeasing them. They can just shove this arrangement up into the deepest nether regions of their corrupt, steaming assholes, for all I care. We'll discuss this later. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find my wife," he said, taking special care to emphasize his final word before storming out of the room in search of Solveig.

* * *

Thonar and Betrid Silver-Blood paced across the room that they had been given in the Palace of the Kings, with their twenty year old daughter Ylva silently watching her parents curse and fume. They had just returned from a meeting with Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, who had just informed them that Galmar Stone-Fist, his right hand man had gotten married to someone else during his absence, and her parents were absolutely furious about their careful plan being laid to waste.

"I'm not bothered in the slightest," Ylva sniffed, interrupting her parents' spat, haughtily crossing her arms. "I didn't want to marry that old man anyway. I want to marry Jarl Ulfric. I want to be High Queen," the brunette breathed, bright blue eyes widening at the very thought of ruling Skyrim.

"My dear, stupid girl. This is not just about you, this is about moving beyond the confines of the Reach," Thonar, her father, sighed, looking at her with irritation. "Also, how many times must I remind you of the rumors that he will likely wed Elisif to validate and consolidate his power? The General was a much more certain bet, and as Ulfric's right hand man, it would have been far too easy to use him to push along things to Ulfric."

Betrid, his wife had seated herself in a chair, and was lazily twirling her jeweled pendant between her pale, slim fingers, quietly contemplating their options. "Perhaps Stone-Fist would have been easier, but think of it, my love. Our Ylva, High Queen! Yes, there are the rumors of a wedding to Elisif after the war is over, but they are just that, rumors," she said, pausing briefly, looking up to ensure that she had her husband's attention. "That is all they may ever be. I don't think the poor girl would be so pleased to consider the thought of marrying her husband's killer."

"Yes, woman?" Thonar snapped, staring at her, waiting for her to make her point.

"There is another rumor, one that is far closer to truth," Betrid continued, a sly smile forming on her lips. "That of Ulfric's high…suggestibility. I believe that if we do this right, we could put her on the throne. A few whispers in the right ears, impressing him with her prowess once she takes the oath, push the Silver-Blood name and might, and I think that the Jarl may find Ylva a much more viable, desirable candidate than Elisif, and we can let him believe the idea was all his own."

"I don't want to take the oath, I don't want to be a soldier," Ylva whined, sticking out her lower lip in an angry pout.

"Shut up," her father hissed, reaching out to snatch one of his daughter's arms in a tight, bruising grip. "You'll do as you're told. If you need to join the rebellion in order to get closer to the Jarl, you'll do so. Understood?"

Ylva nodded reluctantly, glaring at her father as she slouched down in her chair, unhappy with this most recent turn of events, ignoring her parents as they schemed in hushed, excited tones.

* * *

Solveig knocked on the door to her brother's bedroom, slowly leaning inside, stepping through the doorway once she had caught his eye. He huffed as he turned away from her, shifting in his chair so that he was staring directly at the wall, refusing to look at her.

"Yrs, can we talk? Please?" she asked softly, letting out a long, wistful sigh after several seconds of him maintaining his stony silence. She slid into the chair across from him, trying to meet his eyes with her, tapping out a slow, steady rhythm with her fingers on the surface of the table, finally speaking once more as she reached out to take his arm.

"You're angry, I know," she began, squeezing his forearm slightly, her voice as soft and gentle as she could make it. "I'm sorry for upsetting you, I truly am. Will you say something, please?"

He finally looked up at her, face crestfallen. "You're my only family, Sol! I should have been there for something like this."

"I'm not your only family anymore," she said with a smile, hoping he grew more responsive and open to the idea of her marriage with Galmar. "There's Galmar now, too."

Yrsarald grunted, running one hand through his hair, looking up as Ralof entered the room, waiting for his lover to pull up a chair, responding once he had joined them. "Why him, Sol? Out of all the people you could have chosen…you don't even know him!"

"Look at me, Yrsarald. I'm thirty, and I'm not exactly the most desirable woman around."

He scowled. "Why would you say something like that? Sol, you're wonderful."

"Of course you think that! You're my brother. Most think that I'm an insane witch who eats children. So, when I saw him put on that amulet, I took my chances, and I know they'll pay off."

"I suppose I'm happy for you," Yrsarald said with a weak smile, still getting used to the idea of his little sister being married. "It's just…surprising, that he chose you, that's all."

"What's so surprising about that?" Ralof interjected, playfully punching Yrsarald in the arm. "You just got telling her how wonderful she is, and I'm sure the General's found out just how good she is in between the sheets—"

Yrsarald's head snapped up, and his jaw dropped open. "What? What did you just say? How would you know anything about that?"

"Ralof," Solveig began, her tone anxious and worried. "I thought we weren't ever going to speak of that again, and we certainly weren't going to mention it to…?"

"Speak of what?" her brother hissed, glaring at both of them, already dreading what they would say.

"I suppose there's no use in hiding it now," Ralof shrugged, stretching out his arms behind his head. "Shortly after you introduced me to Sol, long before you and I ever became involved, we slept together. Once."

Yrsarald stood up rapidly, his chair crashing to the floor behind him, staring at Ralof incredulously. "You fucked my sister?"

"Calm down, it was over a decade ago," the blond man sighed. "I was curious, wanted to see if women were for me, and Solveig so very kindly helped me establish that they are most certainly not. Relax."

"You're telling me to relax? You fucked my sister!" he shrieked one last time as he attempted to storm out of the room, tripping over the chair in the process, tumbling towards the stone floor with a hard crash. He let out a strange half-snort, half-whimper as he clambered to his feet, tearing out of the bedroom immediately afterwards.

"Why'd you have to go and mention that? He was just starting to come around?"

"Eh, he'll get over it," Ralof replied, rising to his feet. "Come on, since he's busy throwing a tantrum, I'll show you around, tell you everything you need to know, then I'll go fix your brother."

* * *

It had been a week since Solveig had taken the oath, and had officially joined the ranks of the Stormcloaks, and she had settled into life in the Palace of the Kings comfortably. Every morning she would wake up and after a long, large breakfast, she would meander down to the alchemy room set up just for her next to Wuunferth's study and begin to fulfill the many potion orders that the various camps had requested. Her brother was still refusing to speak to her, but everyone had ignored him since he had sunk into a festering, foul mood.

Currently, she was set on grinding blisterwort to a fine, soft powder, concentrating intensely on the mortar and pestle, oblivious to what was happening around her. All of a sudden, someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her against them, causing her to drop the items in her hands, sending a tiny little cloud of ground blisterwort all over her table.

"Galmar," she gasped, turning around to fuss at him, dusting the powder off of her hands. "What are you doing here?"

"Just came to visit," he growled, reaching around to squeeze her bottom, something that elicited a giggle from her. "Maybe get a little something else. It's been a week and I need you, you know."

"Stop it," she laughed, keeping her voice to a low whisper, prodding him in the chest. "Wuunferth is next door, and he'll hear!"

"You'll just have to be quiet then," he murmured, lowering his head to her neck, hands wandering down towards the hem of her robes.

All of a sudden, a voice from next door called out, interrupting what they had just begun. "I can hear you, you fools," Wuunferth, Ulfric's crotchety court mage called out, causing them to sigh and step away from each other. "Shut the damn door next time, you morons."

"We'll just have to wait, I suppose," ignoring her husband's irritated grunt. "Tonight, I promise. Anything else you need?"

"Yes, actually. Time for you to start weapons training out in the yard."

She paused, setting down piece of Namira's Rot that she had just picked up, turning back towards him with a scowl. "Training? I'm a mage, I've got my weapons right here," she insisted, holding out her hands. "All I need, no use for bows or swords, or any of that nonsense."

"Oh? What about when that magic runs dry in the middle of a fight, what will you do then?"

Solveig shrugged, leaning back against the alchemy table, folding her arms over her ample chest. "I'd probably just run, and then come back once my magicka has regenerated."

He groaned, jerking his head towards the door. "Come on, now. I'm taking you to meet your partner."

* * *

Solveig awkwardly shifted, wincing as the Stormcloak cuirass she had been forced to wear chafed in uncomfortable places, gripping the hilt of the simple steel sword her husband had unceremoniously shoved into her hands, inspecting the Nord woman in front of her.

Morgina, a fellow Stormcloak, had been assigned as her partner, and she had been brusquely informed that all of her training, patrols, and missions would be conducted with her. Her partner, a lithe, red-haired, short Nord with bright, playful grey eyes had currently set her shield down on the ground and had reached up to tie up her short hair, leaving her with a ridiculous little spike of hair jutting off the top of her head.

"Have you ever held a sword before?" Morgina called out to her, smiling at Solveig. "It doesn't look like you have."

"Of course I've held one before," Solveig muttered, choosing to leave out the fact that while she had held one, she had never actually used one.

"Come at me, then! I can take it."

Solveig swung her sword, a slow, awkward movement that earned a few laughs from nearby soldiers, aiming for Morgina's shield, surprised when the woman stepped back with a squeal, dodging the blow.

"What was that?"

Morgina shrugged, letting out a tiny little snort. "I don't know, just got nervous, I suppose."

Solveig brushed aside the stray hairs that had fallen out of her ponytail, sheathing her sword successfully after a few tries. "Have you ever had someone come at you with a sword before?"

"No," Morgina replied, tossing her shield on the ground before sitting on top of it. "We're shit at this, aren't we?"

"Probably."

They sat there in silence for several minutes, watching another new recruit, Ylva Silver-Blood, berate and belittle her current practice partner after she had just knocked the man's weapon clean out of his hands, kicking her partner's sword out of reach with a loud, arrogant laugh as he attempted to pick it up. She briefly glanced over in their direction, wrinkling her nose at them, before returning her attention back to training.

"Gods, what a cow," Morgina said, just loud enough to draw a fierce glare from Ylva, who stopped to briefly sneer at her and Solveig. "I'd like to kick her right in her cun—"

"Shh!" Solveig whispered, clapping a hand over her mouth in order to stifle a bout of laughter. "Don't say that."

"Oh, you know it's true. She's awful to everyone. I heard she made a Captain cry, can you believe that? She's only been here a few days, too. Who does she think she is, the bloody Queen of the Stormcloaks?"

Solveig rolled her eyes, but her partner was correct. Ylva had been moderately friendly to her after their first encounter, but after getting a taste of the Silver-Blood woman's snippy and vile personality, Solveig had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with her. "We should get back to training," she finally said, changing the subject. "We still have a long ways to go."

Morgina looked at the woman sitting down on the ground next to her, letting out a sigh as she propped up her chin on her fists. "We have to get better. We have our first patrol next week, can you believe that? We're probably going to die," she added dejectedly.

"We'll be fine, it's only going to be three days, that's it," Sol replied, hoping that they would be, trying to sound as confident and self-assured as possible. "It'll be easy, I bet. We'll get through it just fine."

* * *

**A/N: There we have it! The awkward talk, a glimpse into what those Silver-Blood assholes are up to, and Solveig meets her new partner. Updates are going to be seriously slowing down while I working on finishing up my thesis, but I'm still going to try and update once a week. Thanks for all of the love and support!**

**You are awesome and amazing. Yes, you!**


	13. A Potion for Everything

**Here you are! This almost didn't go up tonight, but I managed to get it done. However, if you're someone out there who is also reading Ascension, don't get your hopes up - there probably won't be another chapter posted for that until next week.**

* * *

"Before we go and meet with Ulfric, we need to lay down a few ground rules," Galmar began, ticking off his lengthy list of requirements on his fingers as he went through them. "No mage robes, no talking about magic, no mention of the Grey Quarter, no mention of those hagraven rumors, no saying anything about his nose. Understand?" he asked, pausing briefly as one final thought came to him. "No bringing that wolf, either. I'll be back shortly."

After watching him leave, Solveig sighed before crumpling into a nearby chair. The Jarl had requested a private dinner with her and Galmar, and her husband seemed to think that she would undoubtedly embarrass him. Her partner, Morgina, had gone with her to Sadri's Used Wares in the Grey Quarter, helping her rifle through a pile of various dresses that the Dark Elf had available for purchase. Morgina had emerged after a few seconds with a silk, forest green gown clutched in one hand and a victorious smile on her face. Solveig had protested once she had seen how low-cut and revealing it was, but Morgina had eventually pressured her into buying it.

"Trust me," she had said, running her hands over the fabric appreciatively. "You show up in this, and the Jarl isn't going to care if you're actually a Thalmor wizard disguised as a hagraven. Besides, you ought to show off these," she continued, prodding Solveig in one, large breast, letting out a loud, raucous laugh.

Solveig finally stood, removing her apron and her stain-covered, hole-ridden robes she wore while she was mixing potions, replacing them with the dress that she had purchased once she learned of the dinner. She smoothed the fabric down with her hands, snatching a jeweled necklace off of her dresser before clasping it around her neck. It was another purchase that Morgina had encouraged.

"Look how lovely this is!" the younger Nord woman had excitedly called out to her, lifting the piece of jewelry up off the counter. "All these glittering jewels will keep all the focus on your tits."

She reached up to undo her braids as she walked over to Snowberry, who was lazily watching her from his favorite spot on their bed, looking up at her eagerly as she approached.

"Sorry, not this time, pup," she sighed, running one hand through her loose, wavy, locks before scratching him under the chin. The little wolf had been growing quite quickly, and he was rapidly approaching the size of a full-size ice wolf. "Galmar says you're not allowed at the dinner table, at least not this time. Don't worry, I'll sneak back some venison for you," she whispered, retying the blue ribbon around his neck in a large, floppy bow. She found herself happy that her husband wasn't there to snort and roll his eyes at the ribbon.

After he had given an enthusiastic lick to her face at the mention of venison, she stood, setting off to find Galmar. "Let's get this over with," she muttered, nearly tripping over her dress as she stepped out into the hallway.

* * *

Morgina sat on the ground in the training yard, bored as she watched her fellow Stormcloaks train around her, trying to ignore the constant clank of untested iron and steel meeting each other. She rubbed her temples, envying Solveig, who had managed to get out of evening training due to her dinner with the Jarl. At the sound of a familiar female voice, Morgina looked up with a scowl, displeased to see Ylva Silver-Blood sashaying across the yard towards a small group of chickens, her dull, dim-witted partner, Kjen, trailing right after her.

"Look at these nasty, filthy things. They shouldn't be here. They need to leave, now," the brunette sneered, looking down at the clucking birds with disdain, causing Morgina to gasp when her foot moved forward in a swift kick. The chicken that she had kicked awkwardly flapped its arms as it tumbled through the air, landing a few feet away, screeching at its attacker.

"Hey, stop that!" Morgina yelled, clambering to her feet. She strode over towards Ylva, her heart pounding furiously, her face flush with rage.

"Oh, look. The savior of the chickens," Ylva said in a mocking tone, Kjen letting out a hearty guffaw. "Come to save your friends, o foul one?"

"Leave them alone, they didn't do anything," Morgina snapped, placing her hand on the hilt of her sword. She puffed out her chest, hoping that she appeared to be at least a little bit intimidating.

"Leave them alone or what? You'll get them to peck me to death? Make me," she said, her tone daring. She raised her foot, kicking the same chicken once again, causing the animal to screech.

After releasing the hilt of her sword, she stepped forward, giving Ylva a quick shove that, despite its best intentions, came off as weak, clumsy, and awkward. The Silver-Blood woman's eyes widened and her mouth opened slightly as she stared at Morgina in shock. Suddenly, her mouth snapped closed and she stepped forward, fury blazing in her eyes. "That was the wrong move, moron."

Before Morgina could react, Morgina had reached out and yanked the redheaded Nord's cuirass up, revealing to roughly two dozen Stormcloak soldiers that she had chosen to forego her smallclothes that particular day, revealing just how bare she was underneath her armor. Morgina quickly pulled the thin cuirass back down to cover herself, but the damage had already been done.

"Did you see the mark on her rear?" Kjen howled, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. "It was shaped like a skeever!"

Morgina set off towards the Palace of the Kings, humiliated tears welling up in her eyes, her face burning. As she was running off, hoping to leave the shrieks of laughter behind her, she happened to notice the frightened little bird that had been the subject of Ylva's abuse. Without a second thought, she grabbed the small animal and tucked it under her arm, continuing her humiliated flight from the training yard.

* * *

Galmar raised an eyebrow as Solveig approached him, briefly glancing up from her chest to cock an eyebrow. "You look nice," he grunted, awkwardly offering her his arm as he guided her towards the small table in Ulfric's private dining area. "Pretty dress."

"Thank you," she whispered, standing up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear. "Perhaps tonight you can see what's underneath it." He coughed awkwardly, and she hoped that would be enough to get him to want to finish up this dinner as quickly as possible.

"Ah, you must be Solveig," Ulfric said as they approached, reaching out to take one of her slim hands in his, raising it to his mouth to place a chaste kiss on it. "Galmar told me a great deal about you, but he failed to share just how incredibly lovely you are. It's a shame I didn't meet you first," he finished, giving her a lusty wink.

_Gods damned flirt_, Galmar thought, furrowing his brow as his wife giggled. Ulfric certainly knew how to charm women, a skill he had never managed to master. "Shall we get to this?" he asked gruffly, interrupting the Jarl's flirtatious antics as he gestured to the table laden with food.

"Of course," Ulfric replied, pulling out a chair for Solveig before Galmar could. "Wouldn't want everything Sifnar prepared to get cold."

"Thank you for inviting us to dinner. I've been so anxious to meet you, since Galmar and my brother speak so highly of you," Solveig said, mustering the prettiest, most gracious smile she could manage.

Ulfric smiled, initially failing to tear his eyes away from the very ample cleavage on display in front of him. "Hmm?" he began, obviously distracted. Finally, he looked up to make eye contact. "It's nothing. Now, Galmar tells me that you're a mage?"

Solveig's head jerked up and her eyes widened as she briefly glanced up at Galmar. She set down her fork, clearing her throat loudly. "I'm not supposed to talk about that," surprising and confusing the Jarl as she brushed aside his question without hesitation.

Galmar groaned. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

After praising the Divines that the incredibly uncomfortable dinner with Ulfric had ended and making a brief stop to change and grab Snowberry, Solveig set off towards her alchemy lab at the opposite end of the palace. As she approached, she noticed a small figure clutching a rather calm chicken slumped against the door.

"Morgina?" she asked, concerned when her partner looked up at her with bloodshot, bleary eyes and bright-red splotchy cheeks. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

"I look f-fucking awful, don't I?" she sniffled, wiping away a stray tear.

"You've looked better, that's for sure," Solveig said, watching her curiously as she knelt down to wrap her arms around Snowberry, who was obviously very interested in making a dinner out of the bird Morgina had in her arms. "What's with the chicken?" she asked, eying the bird nervously. Solveig had never cared for birds, chickens especially.

"Oh, Gregor? Y-Ylva, that horrible bitch, was kicking it," Morgina spat; reaching down to pet the animal she had named Gregor. "I may have gotten a little angry and shoved her, and then she…she…"

"She what?"

"She lifted my cuirass up a-and everyone saw my strange birthmark on my arse, and they saw m-my Bear Cave," Morgina wailed, her cries echoing throughout the stone hallway.

Solveig raised an eyebrow, tightening her gripping on the wolf. "What? What's your Bear Cave?"

Morgina blushed, pointing to the area between her legs, glowering when Solveig began to shake with laughter. "Stop it! Stop laughing at me! You're just as bad as the rest of them," she lamented, recalling the whistles and laughter that had followed her as she had run.

"I'm sorry," Solveig apologized, giving her friend a sincere smile. "Ylva is awful, and everyone knows it."

"She is!" Morgina hissed, clenching her fists in anger. "We have to do something to her. I want to make her pay."

"I thought we talked about this," Solveig groaned, running a hand through her blonde hair. "We're not going to kill her."

Morgina shook her head. "No, no! Don't be silly. I don't want to kill her," she insisted, reaching up to tug at Solveig's arm. "I just want to make her feel as awful and embarrassed as I did, that's all. Sol, can you help me with that?"

* * *

Galmar watched Ulfric as he unrolled the map in the war room, finally clearing his throat after a few seconds. "Well," he began, continuing once the Jarl had looked up. "What you think?"

"What?" Ulfric said, seemingly a bit startled by the question. "They're, err, she's lovely. A bit odd, I'll admit. However, you're lucky you got to her first," he laughed. "A much better choice than that Silver-Blood woman," he admitted, running a hand down over his beard. "I've been hearing unpleasant things about her. Have you?"

"Aye, I have," Galmar replied, thinking about to the tales that Solveig had passed on to her. "Honestly, I wish we'd rethink this alliance with that piece of shit family. This won't end well, Ulfric."

"You sound so certain of that," Ulfric remarked disinterestedly, dipping his quill into the nearby inkwell. "Do you have any solid information that backs up that claim?"

"No," Galmar grunted, wishing that he had more to back up his words than simply a nasty gut feeling. "I don't."

"I would suggest keeping those thoughts to yourself, old friend. As much as you dislike them, you cannot deny that we need their aid. They've supplied plenty of silver and weapons from the mines that they own. We're stretched thin enough as it is, and I dread to think what would happen if we lost their support," the Jarl groaned, flipping through a stack of documents. "We need much more than money and weapons, though. We need more recruits. From what I understand, Skald has been quite voracious in his recruiting. However, we need to expand beyond just the Holds in which we have firm support."

_At the expense of his hold, the worthless fool,_ Galmar mused, clenching his teeth in order to prevent a snide remark about Skald from slipping through. "Are you suggesting we focus more on gathering recruits in the west?"

"I am. We also need to send more scouts out there and scope out the situation. Hopefully, we can find some more able-bodied recruits in the Reach, Falkreath, Haafingar, and Whiterun."

"We won't be able to recruit as openly," Galmar pointed out. "It will be more difficult."

"It will be more difficult, yes, but certainly not impossible. Galmar, I trust you to begin this process soon. Next month, I'll be sending you on a tour of the camps. Don't worry; I'll let you bring that pretty little wife of yours along. I need you out there to fully assess our state in the west," Ulfric finished, clapping him on the shoulder and giving him a quick nod before exiting the war room. "I trust you to handle this."

"Of course you do," Galmar groaned when he was finally alone, slumping into a chair against the wall. He certainly was going to have his work cut out for him.

* * *

Solveig awoke early in the morning, surprised to see candles alight and Galmar sitting up on the edge of the bed, obviously engrossed deep in thought. She sat up, pulling the thin, linen sheet over her chest as she scooted over to join him, wrapping her arms around his massive torso from behind.

"What's on your mind?" she asked, running one hand over a long, raised scar that ran across his back. "More with the Jarls?"

"Not just that," he sighed, reaching up to take her hand that was dangling over his shoulder. "Ulfric is sending me on a tour of camps next month, and I'm supposed to find more recruits, make sure the camps are running smoothly, and fix the problems with these incompetent Jarls. The man acts like I'm fucking Talos himself, or something."

She shifted slightly, so that her chin was resting on one of his muscular, broad shoulders, frowning slightly. "More problems with the Jarls?"

"I haven't heard anything else about Korir," he admitted. "Skald, however…apparently he's becoming worse. Jod wants him gone, and if we're all being honest with ourselves, he should have stepped down as Jarl years ago."

"He's been Jarl for decades now, hasn't he? He probably wouldn't willingly step down," she mused out loud. "He is rather old, though. Who knows, perhaps he's reaching the end of his time."

Galmar raised an eyebrow, mulling over what she had just said. _Perhaps she could…_he began, mentally slapping himself as he looked back at her. He wouldn't ask her to put herself in that kind of danger by eliminating Skald. "I need you to do something for me," he started quietly, moving out of her grasp so that they were face.

"Yes? What is it?"

"I need you to keep an eye on that Silver-Blood woman, what's her name again?"

"Ylva."

"Yes, her. Ulfric thinks I'm being paranoid, but who knows," he grumbled, frowning as he thought of the manner in which Ulfric had brushed aside his concerns. "It couldn't hurt. Can you do that for me?"

Solveig nodded. "Of course."

He sat there silently for a few more seconds, before speaking once more. "You don't have to go, you know. You could stay here, instead of doing the patrol. I could have you assigned to Windhelm. It might be for the best, you could be pre—"

"Pregnant?" she asked, giving a small laugh. "No, I don't think so. I've been taking a potion for that. I wouldn't be a very useful soldier if I were. Besides, I thought we agreed that I wouldn't be treated any differently, or given any special treatment. I'll do the patrol, and it will be fine. You won't even notice that I'm gone."

"It got expanded to a week."

"I know, but even so. It'll go by quickly, and you won't even notice that I'm gone. Now, let's get to bed. We've got that display in the morning, and I'd like to get some sleep."

* * *

Solveig and Morgina leaned against the cold stone wall of the training yard, surveying their comrades. Everyone was flitting about in nervous anticipation, trying to calm their nerves. They had been informed a few days ago that before they were to be officially assigned to any kind of position or sent out on patrol, they would all be displaying their skill and prowess before the Jarl and the General themselves to demonstrate their readiness.

"Have you got it?" Morgina whispered, glancing up at Ylva, who was headed in their direction. "Hurry, she's coming!"

Solveig briefly fumbled around in her satchel, emerging with a small potion clasped in her hand. When Morgina gave her a nod, she began to speak. "Here's the potion I made for you Morg," she began loudly, taking the eager, mischievous grin on her partner's face as a sign to continue. "It'll make your skin clear and glowing, and your hair thick, long, and strong. It took ages to develop. It's beauty in a bottle."

Morgina had reached out to take the bottle, but a pair of hands quickly snatched it away from Solveig. They both looked up, trying to look as furious and affronted as possible as they made eye contact with Ylva.

"Beauty in a bottle? Well, I think I'll be taking this," she said, twisting the cork out. She swilled the entire potion down in a matter of seconds and tossed the empty bottle aside once she was finished.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Morgina let out an excited squeal as she placed her hands on her hips, obviously very pleased with herself. "I can't believe that worked! I mean, I had my suspicions it would, but it went so perfectly!"

"I know," Solveig replied, taking in Morgina's pleased smirk as she leaned down to give Snowberry a quick scratch behind the ears. "I'm just wondering when it will begin to work. Oh, right…do you remember the routine we rehearsed for when it's our turn to go out there?"

Morgina nodded. "I do. Not that it'll do us any good once we're out in a fight, but for now, I think it'll work. Shh, things are getting started now!"

They leaned silently against the wall, watching with great boredom and detachment as pair after pair of Stormcloak soldiers entered the yard and demonstrated their skill with a blade, clapping after each short, awkward display. Both women perked up slightly when Ylva and Kjen entered the yard, watching them intently. Ylva stopped in the center, pausing to toss her hair and glance up at Ulfric with a sly, seductive smile before drawing the iron blade from her side and readying it. Kjen raised his shield, ready to block the incoming blow. She drew her sword back before quickly bringing it down, causing the large man to stagger backwards. There was a small smattering of applause at the semi-impressive display. The smug, arrogant smirk on Ylva's face grew with every blow, duck, feint and dodge, until she stopped suddenly, frozen with a look of horror on her face.

Kjen lowered his shield, opening his mouth to say something to her, but before he could speak, the loud, explosive sound of her evacuating her bowels abruptly and violently echoed throughout the yard. All stared on in stunned silence, dozens of mouths agape at what had just happened, watching as Ylva's knees buckled and she fell to the ground, landing on all fours. Before anyone could react, Snowberry darted off from Solveig's side towards the humiliated, downed woman, knocking her to the ground when he mounted her to have his way, seeming to not mind at all that she was most definitely not a female wolf.

Breaking the silence, Solveig began her strange giggle-snort, and Morgina let out the loudest, most obnoxious roaring laugh, and soon, all present were finding amusement at Ylva's expense. The enraged brunette glanced back as she ran, clutching at her soiled bottom, furious eyes narrowing on a pair of Nord women.

* * *

Astrid, the lovely, fair-haired leader of the Dark Brotherhood looked up at Thorek with interest, tapping her fingers excitedly on the worn, stone table in front of her. "You're sure about this? Honestly, I thought it was pure lunacy when that Cicero arrived, telling me about this woman and what happened in Dawnstar. I just thought it was some mad rambling. It's hard to tell with him. However, if you're certain about this…" she trailed off, her fingers coming to a full stop.

Thorek leaned against the table, nodding excitedly. "Oh, I'm most definitely sure. You should have seen the way she sent that woman to the Void," he cackled, throwing his head back, Astrid joining in. "It was a little sloppy, but I think with some practice, she could be one of our best."

"How did she do it? Remind me."

"Poison. It was quite interesting, too. I hadn't seen anything quite like it," he mused, sounding impressed. "I'm thinking it may have been a unique creation that she made herself. I heard her mention to her victim that she was an alchemist, before, well…you know."

Astrid now had a full-on, excited smile, and her eyes were dancing with excitement. "I think it's time for me to meet her. Go, and bring her to the usual location. Oh, and take that damned jester with you. He's been driving me crazy. Hurry!"

* * *

**Well, Solveig is just making all kinds of friends, isn't she? **

**Also, I forgot to mention this last chapter, but Morgina is harronhermy's creation that she was kinda and wonderful enough to create for this very story! She deserves a nekkid Brynjolf and a high-five. :)**


	14. Strangeness and Charm

Solveig stared at the meager amount of belongings nestled away in her pack, and after one furtive peek to ensure that Galmar wasn't looking, she tucked her mage's robes underneath her spare cuirass.

"I think I'm ready to go," she announced, hoisting her large pack over her shoulder. She smoothed down her Stormcloak cuirass before reluctantly grabbing the plain, steel sword that she had been given. Despite the fact that she had no intention of using it, she decided to bring in along for appearances sake.

Galmar looked up at her, surprising her when he gave a tiny smile. "Are you sure? You'll be out there for a week. No comin' back before then."

"Yes, I'm sure," she sighed, leaning over to give him a kiss, squealing when he pulled her into his lap and slid a hand up underneath the bottom of her cuirass. "Galmar! I have to go now. I'm already late."

He sighed, following her to the doorway once she had stood. "Try not to die out there. Don't do anything stupid. I'll see you in a week."

"So romantic," she said with a small laugh, rolling her eyes ever so slightly. "I'll miss you too."

* * *

"Where have you been? You're late. I am very cross with you!" Morgina said, standing up from the small, makeshift seat she had made with her shield. She tried to scowl at Solveig, but instead gave a small, giggly snort instead. "Not really, though. Needed to have one final fuck before we headed out, did you?"

"No," Solveig lied. She tried to ignore the flush that was creeping up through her neck and into her cheeks, hoping that Morgina would assume the bright red on her face was from the icy morning chill. "We should get going," she continued, pausing to look down at the tiny bird in her partner's arms. "You're bringing that?"

Morgina gave a haughty sniff. "Yes, I'm bringing _that_," she replied, patting Gregor on the head. "I didn't know what else to do with him. I asked that Sifnar fellow to look after him, but I had a feeling that he would end up as the Jarl's lunch. Besides, you're bringing Snowberry."

"Yes," Solveig began, starting off towards the gates with Morgina right behind her. "He's an ice wolf, though. Look at how huge he's gotten! He can help protect us. A chicken, though…"

"He'll do plenty. Now, we should get going before someone sees us and thinks we're trying to avoid patrol duty."

* * *

After walking for about an hour, Morgina stomped over to a large, relatively flat boulder near the cobbled road and slouched down once she had tossed her pack to the side. "Sol, I'm hungry and I'm tired."

Solveig joined her, wincing as Snowberry happily clambered onto her lap. It had been adorable when he was much smaller, but after he had grown at a lightning fast rate, his heavy weight and sharp claws had made it a little less comfortable. "We haven't even been out here that long," she sighed, reaching into her pack to pull out a piece of dried horker meat. Morgina accepted it happily, and stared at her quietly, gnawing on the tough meat.

"Where are we?"

"Hang on, let me look at the map," Solveig replied, fumbling around in her knapsack. After what seemed like an age, she stopped and looked up at Morgina, appearing to be slightly embarrassed. "I forgot the map."

"We could go back and get one."

The blonde shook her head. "I don't think so. It wouldn't look very good to show back up in Windhelm because I forgot our map."

Morgina shrugged and went back to ripping off another chunk of her snack. "No matter, we'll make do," she finally said, pausing for a brief moment. "We're not very good at this, are we?"

* * *

Yrsarald sighed as he tumbled back into bed, ready to get some rest after working on training a new batch of recruits. Ralof looked up at him as he flopped down; turning back to his book once Yrsarald had finally gotten settled.

"I hope Solveig is doing fine out there," he finally said, thinking of his sister, wondering how her first day of patrols had gone. "I wish I had said goodbye to her before she left."

"You had plenty of opportunities," Ralof noted, flipping a page. "You didn't take any of them, given that you're still arse hurt about her marriage."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Do I need to spell it out for you? I think you know what it means," the blond replied with a small chuckle, ignoring his lover's furious scowl.

"Perhaps," Yrsarald admitted. "I do miss her. I will say that I won't miss the noise from, well... you know what happens every night," he finished with a slight shudder and a grimace, hoping to drive the thought of his sister being intimate from his mind.

"What happens?" Ralof asked innocently, the mischievous glint in his eye betraying him.

"You know what I'm talking about, Ralof."

Ralof smirked. "I don't, Yrsa. What is it? Do they play a game of chess? Do they have an intellectual conversation on Dwemer scholarship? Do they practice the lute together?"

"Shut it. You know what I'm talking about," Yrsarald fumed, wishing Ralof would stop his teasing.

"No. By all means, enlighten me."

Yrsarald sighed, running a large hand down his face. "The fucking, Ralof. The loud, obnoxious fucking."

* * *

"Can you do a headstand?" Morgina asked, picking up a long stick from the edge of the road, dragging it along behind her as she broke into a short jog to catch up with Solveig. She briefly reached back to poke Gregor, urging him to settle back down in her knapsack.

"No."

Morgina paused, chewing her lip thoughtfully, the scrape of wood on stone the only sound for a few seconds. "What about a handstand? Can you do one of those?"

Solveig groaned. Ever since they had left Windhelm, she had to endure a barrage of strange questions and odd turns in the conversations. "No, I can't do one of those either. In fact, I have a thing about being upside down. I try to avoid it," she replied wearily, hoping that they would find a place to set up camp soon. Thankfully, they had remembered their tent and their bedrolls, so they would at least be able to accomplish that.

All of a sudden, Morgina drew her bow and readied a simple iron arrow, eyes focused on something in the distance, ignoring Solveig's reply. She pulled the bowstring back and let the arrow fly and after a few seconds, a pained bleat pierced the air. The redhead turned back towards Solveig and grinned before darting off towards the goat she had just taken down.

The two women knelt down by the deceased goat, inspecting it for a few minutes before Morgina stood. "Look at this thing!" she lamented, gesturing to the scrawny animal lying still on the cobbled road. "It's so tiny. There's nothing to it."

"Nothing but hair, horns, and lies," Solveig sighed, prodding at the creature. "Not enough meat to make it worth our while. We should probably get moving again. Hopefully we can find a decent place to stay for the night before too long."

"Here I was, hoping we might have something besides disgusting dried horker meat for dinner," Morgina said with a scowl, taking off after Solveig.

They walked along the road in silence for the next few hours, listening only to the chirp of the birds, the rush of the river nearby and Snowberry's loud pant. The day was drawing to a close, with the softer, golden light of late afternoon beaming down on them when in the distance, they spotted a mill.

"This place looks like it might be abandoned. Is anyone even here?" Solveig wondered out loud, taking in the large, empty open space, failing to find any sign of life, save for the chickens pecking in the dry earth around their feet.

Morgina opened her mouth to respond, but any retort was cut off as a tall, bronze-skinned Nord woman barreled towards them, looking absolutely furious. "You good-for nothings finally came back!" she bellowed, stomping towards the two surprised women. "I have half a mind to—oh, never mind. I'm sorry. I thought you two were someone else."

"Obviously," Morgina muttered, rolling her eyes as her partner nudged her in the arm.

"Who did you think we were?" Solveig asked, curiosity getting the best of her.

The woman sat down dejectedly on the nearby chopping block, looking up at them with weary eyes after she had tossed aside her gloves. "I do apologize. My name is Gilfre. I own the mill. I thought you were some of my men that used to work here at the mill. A few weeks ago, they took off without even giving me so much as a day's notice to join the Stormcloaks," Gilfre said, her brow creasing as she thought of the workers that had abandoned her. After giving a long, exhausted sigh, she continued her rant. "I've been running the place by myself ever since, and honestly, I don't know how much longer I can do this. With the Jarl demanding large orders of lumber and those damned giants that come across the river from time to time, I'm not sure how much longer I can last out here."

Solveig cocked an eyebrow, interested in the last thing that Gilfre had mentioned, recalling just how exciting and invigorating the fight with Cicero had been. "Giants? I've fought giants before."

"Yes, giants," the mill owner groaned, resting her head on one balled up fist. "They've attacked my men, well, when I actually had men to work here, and they've stolen livestock on more than one occasion. They're a damned nuisance," she said, stopping suddenly, obviously formulating a plan in her mind as she tapped one slim finger on her chin. "You know, I think we may be able to help each other out. If you can take care of those giants for me and help me out around the mill for a few days, I can promise you meals and a warm place to stay. What do you think?"

* * *

Solveig and Morgina were huddled together, crouched behind a moss-covered boulder, only occasionally peeking out to examine the pair of giants that were mere yards away from them. Slowly, they raised their heads up once more, withdrawing to their hiding after they had watched one of the creatures scratch its ass with the massive club it had clutched in one hand.

"Have you ever fought a giant before?" Solveig asked, stripping down to her smallclothes before turning around to rummage in her pack.

Morgina swallowed nervously, reaching one hand up to scratch at the nape of her neck, letting out an awkward laugh. "No, I haven't. Wait, why are you taking your clothes off? You're not going to fight it naked, are you?"

Solveig let out a short, low chuckle as she pulled her mage's robes over her head. "No, I'm not. I just needed to change into these. They'll help with my magicka regeneration."

"Oh," Morgina sighed, feeling relieved. "Wait, you're a mage? Well, that certainly explains why you hold a sword like it's a woodcutter's axe."

Solveig ignored the remark about her lack of skill with a blade and cautiously looked out from their protective hiding spot one final time. She raised one hand to her mouth, biting nervously at her nails, hoping that neither of them got killed, or seriously injured during the fight. "I think I have a plan," she whispered, turning back around once she had fully evaluated the situation."

"What is it? Tell me, and I'll follow your lead. Still, if you hadn't mentioned your giant-slaying prowess, we wouldn't be in this situation."

"It'd be best if we try ranged attacks, those clubs would kill us with one blow. I'm certain of it," she whispered, feeling an eerie chill run down her spine, recalling the damage that a giant's club had done to a hardy, old growth tree. She had no desire to come that close to getting her head smashed in once more. "You take the one that's farthest, and I'll take the other one. You'll have to be as quick as possible."

"I thought giants were supposed to be slow."

"They don't move too quickly, that's true. However, their long legs mean long strides. Just try not to get killed. Try to maintain a good distance between you and them."

After giving each other one final, encouraging nod they each set off towards a giant, readying their choice of weapon. Solveig had taken the one that was closer, shrouding herself in a protective alteration spell before she attacked, using many of the same tactics that she had during her previous fight. The giant she had darted off towards was made suddenly, violently aware of her presence when a ball of fire smashed into its back. The creature stumbled forward as it swatted it its back, howling and grunting as its flesh crackled and smoldered.

Morgina watched for a few seconds, sending up a silent, pleading prayer to Talos before she drew an arrow from her quiver with trembling hands. Solveig's attack had drawn the attention of the camp's second massive resident, and it was currently thudding and blundering towards the blonde mage. She struggled to find stable footing as the giant's thundering footsteps shook the earth below just enough to make it difficult to find a firm stance. After a few seconds, she finally managed it, releasing the arrow from her bow, breathing a sigh of relief when it slammed into the giant's ribcage. The creature looked down at the tiny arrow poking out of its ribcage, staring down at it with a look that could only be interpreted as surprise and confusion. One large hand reached up, yanking the arrow out before looking up at Morgina with rage, seeming to notice her for the first time.

Fortunately, she was ready, with another arrow nocked and her bowstring drawn as far back as possible, releasing the arrow. It made contact with the furious giant's shoulder, and despite her shaking hands, she had already released another one by the time the creature had finished inspecting the thin object protruding from its shoulder. The third arrow hit it in the throat, and the giant let out a loud, gasping gurgle as it collapsed to its knees. Emboldened by her success thus far, she stepped forward, aiming at the vulnerable, exposed flesh of the throat once more, smiling with satisfaction when her aim was true. The giant collapsed, twitching briefly before it was completely still.

Morgina looked up, surprised to see that Solveig was finishing off her opponent, gouts of flames bursting forth from both palms, shooting forward to engulf the massive figure twisted on the ground before her. After a few seconds she stopped, cautiously approaching the charred, burnt giant.

"Looks like they're both dead!" Solveig called out happily, waving her over. Morgina approached with great trepidation, exhaling once she could see for herself that the giant was most certainly dead. She sheathed her bow, folding her arms over her chest as she stared down at the expired giant.

Solveig let out an irritated sigh as she planted her hands on her hips. "Look at this! I got carried away, and now this fellow is blackened to a crisp. I hope the toes are still usable," she said, surprising Morgina when she knelt down and began to saw away at the charred flesh of the feet. She stood after a few minutes with a handful of giant toes. Solveig raised the pile to her nose and sniffed, letting out a small satisfied sound, stuffing them all into a small satchel. Morgina watched the display in horror, raising one small hand to cover her slack-jawed mouth. After making her way over to the giant peppered with arrows, Solveig repeated the process, nonplussed by the crimson ooze pouring over her hands as she slashed away at the giant's feet.

Morgina wrinkled her nose as she drew closer, gagging when a strong, putrid smell invaded her sensitive nose. "What in Oblivion is that? It smells like shi—"

"Like shit? That's because it is," Solveig remarked casually, seemingly undisturbed by the foul odor. "The giant shit itself."

Her partner's eyes widened. "What? Why would it do that?"

"That's what happens when you die. You shit yourself," she replied, continuing to calmly hack and saw.

"I-I think I'm going to be sick," Morgina gasped as she felt the telltale burn of bile rising in her throat. She bent over, violently retching in front of Solveig, who watched the display with a bored curiosity.

"Don't worry, I'm finished now," Solveig said, wiping her bloodstained hands on her robes. "I think I saw a chest over there. Let's go take a look. There might be something useful inside."

Morgina shook her head, wiping her mouth. "You know, I can't tell if you're fucking brilliant, or fucking crazy. Or, perhaps a little bit of both."

* * *

The pair had trudged back to Mixwater Mill worn down and exhausted after taking care of the troublesome giants, and after stumbling down the rocky slope and trudging through the icy waters of the river; they were greeted by an ecstatic mill owner.

"I'll be honest. I didn't think you two were going to come back," Gilfre said, giving them a small, impressed smile. "The few times the Jarl or his steward have actually sent someone out here to take care of them, well…it didn't end well. I suppose I can stop pestering the Jarl about taking care of it. Now, come on inside. I've got a meal ready, and I cleaned up the mess left behind in the worker's house."

* * *

They had left the mill after a few days, passing the time by helping chop wood, make meals, weed Gilfre's garden, cut logs, eventually parting ways to continue journeying through Eastmarch. Shortly after saying their farewells, they had run into a pair of young, handsome hunters, and after helping the two men slay a couple of angry, hostile bears that they had provoked, they had been invited to join them in the hot springs.

Solveig leaned back, resting her head against the warm, muddy bank of the hot spring with a satisfied sigh. She dug her toes into the warm, thick mud, her tired, aching bones getting a little bit of repose from the hot, bubbling water she was currently lounging in.

"Why don't you just take it all off," asked one of the hunters, giving Solveig a playful smirk as he gestured to the smallclothes that she insisted on wearing, despite the fact that the water had rendered them about as opaque as the water they were lounging in.

Morgina laughed, a loud, raucous snort, before swilling back wine from the bottle that had just been passed to her. "I'd watch out if I were you, she's a married woman."

The man, a handsome, dark-skinned Redguard, raised an eyebrow before giving her a lusty wink. "Married, eh? Just how I like them."

"Oh ho, I wouldn't try anything if I were you," Morgina said, a sly, wicked grin forming on her face. "She's married to General Stone-Fist."

The Nord hunter, who had otherwise been silent, suddenly looked up and gasped. "Galmar Stone-Fist? The Stormcloak General? I heard that once he ripped off a hagraven's head, with his bare hands! _Bare hands_," he repeated for emphasis, eyes widening.

His companion rolled his eyes. "I thought you said he ripped out its throat with his feet. Is this the same man who once punched a sabre cat into unconsciousness?"

"Aye."

"Either way," Morgina said in a quiet, hushed whisper, briefly stopping to lean over them before she sloshed her away ashore. "You touch her, and I'm sure he'll find both of your and rip off your tiny little cocks…_with his bare hands._"

A nervous glance was exchanged between the two men, and the redhead left them with a cackle, making her way over to Solveig, who was busy pulling her robes back over her head.

"This has been fun," she casually remarked, picking up her dusty cuirass. "Did you see the look on their faces, Sol? Did you?"

"Yes, I did," she sighed, leaning down to scratch Snowberry behind the ears. "We should probably set up camp soon. Tomorrow we might want to consider starting back towards Windhelm, since we have to be back there in a couple of days."

"How are we going to find our way back to Windhelm? We don't have a map, remember?"

Solveig shrugged, standing up to gaze off into the distance. After a few seconds, she raised one hand and pointed. "I think it's that way. Or," she paused, scratching her chin before pointing in an entirely different direction. "It might be that way. Don't worry, we'll figure it out. Eventually, we're bound to head in the right direction."

"I suppose so," Morgina yawned, stretching her arms. "I'm tired from this helping people thing. I don't like patrols."

"The only thing you've helped with today is finish off several bottles of wine. Also, I thought you just said you enjoyed them?"

"I suppose. Too bad we didn't see any Imperials. Although, I suppose we could just lie and say that we came across an entire company and slaughtered them all," she grinned, making a stabbing motion in the air. "We'd get rewarded for that, no doubt."

Solveig laughed, hoisting her pack over one shoulder, motioning for Morgina to follow. "Come on. Let's find somewhere to set up camp away from these two naked creeps."

* * *

Tracking her down had proven to be far more difficult than Thorek and Cicero had anticipated. After making the long, arduous journey to Eastmarch from the deep, pine forests of Falkreath, they had poked around the hold capital to find that the General's wife was out on patrol and could be absolutely anywhere.

So, when they stumbled across her tiny little camp on the outskirts of the hot springs, they both sent up a silent thanks to Sithis. It would certainly appear that the Dread Father held them in his favor, for tonight at least.

They, Thorek mainly, watched from a distance, keeping hidden well out of view, not wanting to be discovered before nightfall. The hours passed with Cicero's jests and jokes, and Thorek's irritated grunts. Just when the redheaded assassin was on the verge of plunging his dagger into Cicero's throat, the jester stood up quickly and pointed.

"Look!" he said, his voice a shrill, excited whisper. "Oh ho, it is time for sleep! Time to strike!"

Thorek clambered to his feet, muscles stiff from hours of crouching sitting, limbs protesting as he stretched. "It would appear so," he sighed, hoisting his pack up over his shoulder. "You remember the plan, right? Just Solveig. Leave the other woman. No stabbing, you hear?"

Cicero stuck his lower lip out in a pout and folded his arms over his chest as he followed Thorek down the worn, rocky path towards the little camp, pulling their horses along behind him. Thorek stopped as they drew closer, fumbling around in his satchel. After a few seconds, he emerged with a small glass bottle and a worn, thin rag. He popped the cork out of the bottle and then doused the cloth, turning back to give a nod to Cicero before continuing.

The large wolf lying in front of the tent was the first, slipping into unconsciousness before he could raise the alarm. There was also a chicken, and it pecked the assassin on the hands a few times before slumping over. Letting out a quiet, irritated sigh, he wiped the blood off of his hands before continuing. Thorek threw open the tent flap, pressing the cloth first to Solveig's nose and mouth before repeating the process with her partner.

"Come on," he whispered to Cicero, jerking his head to the unconscious blonde that he was now trying to pick up. "A little help would be wonderful. Gods, what are you made of? Iron? Ebony?" he mumbled to her, surprised at how unreasonably and surprisingly heavy she felt in his arms.

He dragged her unceremoniously out of the tent, depositing her clumsily in Cicero's arms before moving to the horses to rearrange the packs strapped to their sides, hoping to make some room for Solveig. Cicero stared at the blonde in danger of slipping to the ground, reaching up one hand to grab one of her floppy arms, making her lightly smack herself in the face with her own hand.

"Why is kind, sweet Solveig hitting herself?" he crowed, ignoring his fellow assassin's glare as he continued waving her arm about, turning his full attention to the slack-jawed Stormcloak he was barely holding onto. "Stop hitting yourself!"

"Shut up," Thorek growled, wincing as another one of Cicero's shrill cackles pierced the air. "We need to get moving. It would be best to be as far away as possible by dawn."

* * *

When Morgina finally awoke, sometime well after noon, the first thing she noticed was the pounding, splitting headache that plagued her. She rolled over, reaching out for her partner, surprised when her hand came down on an empty bedroll. Morgina slowly sat up, scanning the small tent. It was empty.

She crawled towards the entrance, watery eyes adjusting to the bright, afternoon sunlight once she had poked her head outside. Solveig wasn't outside either. Morgina withdrew back into the cool, dim tent, scratching her head. When she realize that Solveig's pack was still resting on the ground at the edge of her bedroll, and her mage's robes and her cuirass were left in a jumbled pile in the corner, she began to get worried.

After pulling on her own boots and cuirass, Morgina finally stepped outside of the tent, rubbing her temples. For the rest of the day, she waited patiently with a whining, whimpering Snowberry and a seemingly unconcerned Gregor, watching for any sign of her friend. It was when the inky, darkness of twilight began to descend over Eastmarch that she realized Solveig had vanished, and she wasn't going to be coming back.

"Fuck."

* * *

_A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I just wanted to give Solveig and Morgina some time to get to know each other before she got whisked away by the Dark Brotherhood. Next time, Morgina is going to have to explain to Galmar that she lost his wife and Solveig is going to meet the lovely, wonderful Astrid._

_For those of you who are reading Ascension, that will be updated tomorrow! Expect lots of Erandur being awesome and a little bit of Brynjolf-y goodness. :)_

_In other news if you like the Dawnguard and Clan Volkihar, Moonflower04 and I are pleased to announce that we'll be working on a collaborative piece focusing on the wonderful, underappreciated Valerica. It should be up sometime in the next 2-3 weeks. The title is still pending, but here's the summary, written by the lovely Moonflower04 herself:_

_A once loving mother, a disdainful wife, and a cowardly, hide away vampire are all titles Valerica has encompassed over the years. But she wasn't always known that way; this is the story of a woman who gave up everything she had, to protect the one thing that mattered most – her daughter, Serana._


	15. Hail Sithis!

Morgina twisted her hands nervously as she trudged up the steps to the Palace of the Kings, trying to ignore the clucking from her knapsack and the moping wolf next to her. She had waited for Solveig to return to their camp tucked away in the hot springs, and when her companion hadn't come back after a day, set had set forth to searching. She had stormed into the camp of the perverted hunters, demanding to know if they had done something to her, and when it had become clear that they hadn't, she turned her search elsewhere. Morgina had slowly roamed back to Windhelm, dreading what would happen when she faced the General.

"We might as well get this over with," she muttered to herself, pushing open one of the large, heavy doors. She stepped inside, heart beginning to pound when she spotted Galmar Stone-Fist lounging at the long table in the main hall, chatting amiably with a few soldiers and Jarl Ulfric.

Taking a deep breath, she set forward, wondering how he would react. _Do you even need to wonder, stupid? He's going to rip your spine out of your asshole and make you eat it. He'll punch you so hard your head will pop off and fly over into Morrowind. He is going to tear you apart_, Morgina silently panicked, the lump in her throat growing ever larger as she approached him.

"So, you're back. You're late, too," Galmar grumbled, giving his wife's partner the briefest of glances. "Where is Solveig? Has she already gone to that damn alchemy lab of hers?"

Morgina opened her mouth to reply, but quickly closed it. _You could lie to him, you could say that's where she is_, she considered, but brushed it off. It would be best to tell the truth, no matter how violent and horrific the consequences would likely be. "Actually, she's not here. Something happened," she began, already regretting her choice of words.

Galmar's brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed, already looking absolutely furious. "What do you mean, 'something happened'?" he growled, slamming his tankard down on the table.

After looking up, Morgina noticed that the soldiers he had been so calmly chatting with mere moments earlier were now frantically scrambling away from the table, all obviously wanting to be a safe distance away from Galmar when he exploded. Even the Jarl looked nervous, and had averted his eyes as he ducked into the war room.

"Don't make me repeat the question," Galmar growled, snapping the fork he had been holding clean in half. "Tell me!"

"I-I don't know, I just woke up and she was gone, I swear, I have no idea what happened to her!" Morgina insisted, wringing her hands frantically. "I looked for days, I promise, but I couldn't find any sign of her."

Galmar made to stand, and as soon as she saw him move, she crumpled to the floor, letting out a prolonged, high-pitched shriek. She clenched her eyes shut and threw her arms up over her head to protect herself, trembling slightly.

The General stared down at her in exasperation, folding his arms over his chest. "Get up off the damn floor, you're embarrassing yourself. I'm not going to do anything to you."

She slowly rose to her feet, feeling sheepish by her panicked, terrified display. "L-listen, I looked. I promise. I-I think someone took her."

Galmar cocked an eyebrow, his mouth forming a thin, terse line as he silently seethed for a few seconds. "What makes you think that?" he asked, voice harsher and gruffer than usual.

"When I woke up, all of her things were still there. They hadn't been touched. Unless she ran off in her nightie, I-I think someone took her."

He slumped down, taking a seat back at the table with a slouch. "I knew I shouldn't have let her go out there," he grumbled angrily, thoughts reaching back towards the kidnapped family members of his fellow officers, fearing that the same, horrible fate had befallen her. "It was a risk I shouldn't have taken. Not with her."

Morgina reached out, gently placing one hand on his broad arm, flashing him a comforting smile. "Look on the bright side!" she said, trying to sound as optimistic as possible. "At least there's no body, so it's not certain that she's dead, or something. Besides, look! I brought back Snowberry," she continued, nudging the ice wolf forward. "So, there's that, at least."

Galmar scowled at his wife's pet, turning back to Morgina with a smoldering glare. "You'd best find my wife if you want to keep your head," he growled through clenched teeth. "Otherwise you'll end up like that hagraven."

* * *

The journey to Falkreath hold was long, arduous, and by the time they rode through the city gates, Thorek was more than ready to strangle his mad, jester companion and toss his little merry corpse into a river, hopefully to be swept far, far away. They had gotten a few strange looks from passerby when they noticed an obviously unconscious Solveig, but either no one cared enough to intervene or, they recognized the armor and chose to bite their tongue.

"Come on, we've got to get her inside," Thorek sighed, stretching his stiff, aching limbs after he had dismounted his horse. "Astrid is waiting for her. We don't want to keep Astrid waiting, do we?"

Cicero scowled at the mention of their Sanctuary leader's name, relinquishing his grip on Solveig. "Oh, fine, fine…send her to the pretender! Cicero will have no part of it," he sniffed, jerking on the reins of his horse, guiding the animal back towards their Sanctuary.

"Suits me just fine," Thorek muttered, slinging Solveig over his shoulder like she was a sack of potatoes. He trudged through the mud towards the inn, grimacing as thick, cold raindrops splashed down on his head. A crack of thunder sounded as he flung open the door to the inn, and he furtively poked his head inside.

"Ah, brother. You've finally arrived," called out a deep, rich timbre, and Thorek looked up to see Nazir, a Redguard and fellow assassin lounging by the hearth fire. "Is she the one? Astrid is upstairs. I'll take you to her. She's incredibly excited to meet this one."

Thorek gave him a nod, setting off after Nazir. The Redguard stopped in front of a door, gave a series of knocks, and twisted the knob open once a female voice called out for them to enter. Stepping inside, Thorek saw Astrid, their leader, lounging comfortably in a chair.

"There she is!" she gushed excitedly, standing up quickly. She strode over to Thorek, her slim fingers reaching out to trace Solveig's features. "Put her in the bed. She looks like she could use some rest. I'll be here waiting when she wakes."

* * *

Morgina had been confined to the Palace of the Kings, making what she could do to find Solveig incredibly limited. She couldn't shake the feeling that Galmar was ready to draw and quarter her at a moment's notice.

"I can't leave, I don't know what he expects me to do," Morgina groaned, smashing her face down on the cool wood of the table before her. "He's going to kill me, I know it. He's going to smash my face in with his bare fists, just you wait."

Ralof shrugged, letting out a small laugh before taking a swig of mead. "He probably thinks that you killed her, dumped her body off somewhere in the hot springs, and let the sabre cats eat it," he paused, eyes narrowing as he lowered his bottle. "You didn't kill Sol, did you?"

After a short, indignant gasp, Morgina shook her head. "No, absolutely not! I would never, ever do such a thing. Sol is wonderful," she vehemently insisted. "How can you even suggest something as awful as that?"

"You know, just checking to make sure. You can never tell, sometimes, especially with the kind, sweet, innocent looking ones. They're usually the darkest, and they're usually the ones you have to watch out for."

* * *

Solveig slowly opened her heavy lids, each blink taking more effort than the last as she surveyed her blurred, fuzzy surroundings. Her tongue instinctively flicked out to wet her dry, chapped lips, and with a grunt of effort, she slowly pushed herself into a seated position.

"Oh, good. You're finally awake," cooed a sultry, honeyed voice, and Solveig looked up to see a woman with her face obscured by a dark cowl lounging casually in a nearby chair. "Being kept unconscious for days upon end usually does a number on one's body. We've even had a few potential recruits die because of it," she remarked, letting out a small amused sound as she watched Solveig's eyes widen.

"What happened? Where am I?" Solveig mumbled, the woman's smooth voice still managing to irritate her throbbing, pounding head.

The mysterious woman shrugged. "Does it matter? That's much more than can be said for that tavern wench in Dawnstar. What was her name, again? Abelone, I believe. I was told that you were so, so clever. I would very much like to see if you can figure this out."

After a few seconds of idly scratching at her scalp, Solveig let out a tiny gasp. "The Brotherhood. You're from the Dark Brotherhood."

With a laugh, the woman stood, motioning for Solveig to join her at a small table laden with food. "So Thorek wasn't lying about you, then. Now, come here. I'll bet you must be famished, since you haven't eaten in days."

Solveig nodded as she slid into the chair the woman gestured to, enthusiastically accepting the piping hot bowl of stew that was held out to her. She wasted no time in picking up the nearby spoon, quickly shoving in a mouthful. "What do you want with me?" she asked, briefly averting her attention away from the food on the table.

"I was told by Thorek and Cicero what you had done, and I thought you had the potential to join our family," the woman said, idly twirling a dagger in between her fingers. "My name is Astrid, by the way. It is _so_ exciting for me to finally meet you, Solveig."

"What did you bring me here for?"

"A little test, if you will," Astrid replied, pausing briefly. "I used to have something else planned, but it didn't exactly showcase a recruit's full potential," she continued, briefly pausing. After several new members had failed spectacularly on their contracts, she had decided a change was in order. She previously had them pick their victim in an abandoned, rotting shack in Hjaalmarch, but slaying someone helplessly bound with an executioner's hood covering their face was very, very different than an actual assassination. "We've gotten word about a contract here in Helgen. Finish your dinner, and then we'll meet with them."

* * *

Solveig adjusted the cowl that covered her face, before stopping to run her hands over the red and black armor that Astrid had given to her to replace her worn, muddied nightgown. _The armor of an assassin_, she silently marveled, already feeling excitement course through her veins. After a few seconds, a polite cough broke her stupor.

"Ah, if you don't mind, I'd like to get to it, then," interrupted a worn, delicate voice. "You've no idea how relieved I am that the Night Mother finally answered my call. I've been trying for weeks, to no avail."

Solveig glanced up at Astrid, who gave her a brief nod. Astrid had said that she simply wanted to watch and admire while she dealt with the contract. "Yes, what is it? Who do you need to have killed?" she asked, wishing she had a darker, more poetic and eloquent way of asking him what he needed.

The man pulled his worn cap off and settled down into the nearby chair with a sigh. The dim, orange glow of the candlelight danced over his weathered features, and he let out a sigh as he dragged a gnarled hand over his grey-brown beard. "It started with my daughter, Fjola," he began, choking up almost immediately. Solveig reached over, placing a comforting hand on his forearm, giving him a gentle squeeze to continue. "We always told her not to leave the city, to stay within Helgen, but she never did listen to us. One day, she didn't come home. I went to look for her and I found her lyin' in the road. Bloodied and beaten and her dress up around her waist. The bastards violated her before she died, or after. I don't know," he continued, voice thick with grief. As soon as Solveig had given him a nod, he went on.

"I found out that it was some bandits who did it. They're over in Embershard Mine, not too far from here. I want you to kill them, to slay them all."

Solveig's brow furrowed. "Bandits? Why not just go to the Jarl for this?"

He sighed, raising one hand to silence her. "I'm getting' to that. I did go to Jarl Siddgeir, worthless sack of shit, but he didn't do anything."

At the mention of Siddgeir's name, Solveig bristled, her nerves on edge. "The Jarl didn't do anything? Why not?"

"It turns out he was in cahoots with them the whole time, according to his housecarl. That man risked a lot to tell me," the man sighed, studying his hands. "He was lettin' them operate freely in Falkreath as long as he got a cut of the spoils. It's his fault my daughter's dead," he spat, fingers beginning to delicately tremble. He fought back tears for a few seconds, looking up at Solveig once he had regained his composure.

"I want you to kill the Jarl of Falkreath. I want you to make that bastard pay."

* * *

Galmar didn't like lying to his fellow officer. He honestly didn't. However, when Ralof had informed him of the magnificent, catastrophic meltdown that would undoubtedly occur, he had agreed to the request to keep Solveig's disappearance from her brother for as long as possible.

"General," Yrsarald called out, his voice unusually bright and cheery. "I'd like to speak with you, provided you have a spare moment."

Galmar grunted, looking up from the documents he had been mulling over. "Speak."

"I know that I have been a bit hostile towards you, and towards Solveig, but I've been talking with Ralof about this quite a bit, and I've decided that I'm happy you married my sister. You're a good man, and it's an honor to have you as my brother."

Before Galmar could respond, Yrsarald had thrown his arms around his shoulders, surprising him with an uncomfortably tender and affectionate embrace. "I've also overheard some of your discussions with Jarl Ulfric. You plan to start a family with my sister?"

Galmar sighed, roughly pulling away from Yrsarald. The man was always too emotional, and far too affectionate, for his liking. "That's right," he mumbled, wondering what else the man had overheard.

Yrsarald clapped his hands together in delight. "That's wonderful! Ah, I'm sure Solveig will be excited to hear that, and I know the pair of you will make excellent parents. Speaking of Solveig, where is she? I thought those out on patrol were supposed to have returned by now?"

Clearing his throat, Galmar turned around, pretending to be sorting through a pile of correspondences from the camps. "Aye, they did. She went out again, though. Somethin' about needin' rare ingredients, or some shit like that," he lied, hoping that Yrsarald bought it. "She'll be back soon enough."

He did. "Well, let me know when she gets back, will you? I haven't seen her in what seems like an age," he sighed, reaching up to scratch at his beard. "I wish I had spoken to her before she left, but ah well. So it goes. I'll be seeing you around, General," he finished, exiting the war room after giving the guilty General one final clap on the shoulder.

* * *

Solveig took the lead, stepping onto the worn path that led up to the entrance of Embershard Mine, her companion right behind her. Astrid had sent her with Nazir, a surly, sarcastic Redguard man.

"So it's true, then," she said nonchalantly, glancing at the man behind her, eyes flicking down to the scimitars sheathed on either hip. "Curved swords."

He rolled his eyes, letting out a sigh, wishing that Astrid had chosen someone else to keep an eye on the potential addition to the family. "Very funny. I've never heard that one before," he drawled, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Astrid didn't mention that you were so observant."

She let out a light, tinkling laugh before coming to a stop. "I see a bandit guarding the entrance. I'll take care of him," she said, flames forming on her palms, and before Nazir could even reach for the hilt of his blade, a fireball burst forth from her palm, and the bandit at the entrance went flying, his smoldering body landing a few yards away.

He cocked an eyebrow, reaching up to adjust his head garb. "Is that how you kill? Do you know how to use a bow, or a blade?" When she shook his head, he groaned. "You're going to have to learn how to kill your targets silently, stealthily. You can't launch gigantic balls of fire at every single one of them. That's a _surefire_ way to get caught."

She snorted, giggling at his awful jest, letting out a loud, raucous cackle. "Oh, you are funny! I suppose," she replied, setting off towards the entrance of the mine. "We've got some bandits to kill."

* * *

Nazir wiped his blade off on the dirt and vomit encrusted armor of the dead bandit in front of him, turning to Solveig once he had completed the task. "Did you see the way they came running?" he scoffed, setting off down the side path, hoping to find a way to lower the nearby bridge. "It looked like they were just _dying_ to see us."

He was surprised when a strange giggling snort sounded behind him, and he turned to see her clutching her sides, shaking with silent laughter. "Oh!" she gasped, reaching up to wipe at her eyes. "Now that was funny!"

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Typically, his puns and jokes were received to an audience filled with eye rolls and exasperated sighs, so her genuine laughter was a welcome change. He came to a stop in a small room, looking around for any kind of release for the bridge.

"Wait," Solveig said, placing on hand over his. "I'll bet as soon as the bridge is lowered, bandits will come to investigate. Want me to go and wait for them?"

He shook his head. "No, I'll do it," he said, his fingers already twitching excitedly around the hilt of a scimitar. "I'll give the signal to lower the bridge."

Nazir took his position, readying a scimitar in each hand, giving her a quick wave. She pulled the lever, and the bridge collapsed with a creak and a thud, the hollow sound echoing throughout the cavernous mine. Only a few, fleeting seconds had passed when a pair of bandits came running out, both raising their weapons when they saw the Redguard. A mountain of a Nord reached for his mighty steel battleaxe, raising it behind his head. The man swung his weapon, but Nazir deftly dodged it, taking a few steps back. The weapon was impressive, but the man wielding it was far too slow. He lunged while the man was preparing another attack, his scimitar slicing through the man's chest. His opponent fell to his knees with a choked gurgle, a thin stream of blood oozing out of his mouth. Nazir grabbed the man's hair, raising his blade, pressing it against the man's throat. "To the Void, then," he mumbled, a quick slice ensuring that the man would be sent up as an offering to Sithis. He glanced up to see that the second bandit had already been taken care of, and he set to work inspecting the dead man's pockets. He emerged with a few septims and an apple, taking a large bite out of it.

Solveig had her attention focusing on the second of the bandits, a young Bosmer woman readying her bow. She leaned over the rotting wood of the railing, struggling to get a clear shot at the bandit, cursing silently under her breath when the Bosmer loosed an arrow, barely missing Nazir. She leaned further over, flames gathering in her palms, gasping in delight when she saw the woman stop and reach back towards her quiver. _Now is the time_, she thought, releasing the magicka that had welled up in her palm, watching in satisfaction as a ball of fire slammed into the archer. The woman was thrown back against the nearby stone wall, howling and wailing for several seconds before growing silent. Solveig watched as the woman's body crackled and smoldered, waiting for Nazir to rejoin her.

"Did you eat food off of that dead man?"

"Yes. I don't see what's wrong with it. He won't need it anymore."

"I suppose. I just hadn't met anyone else that does it. My brother always made a point to let me know how fucking weird and nasty he thought it was. Hadvar, too," she added thoughtfully, thinking back to how disapproving they had been.

"You know, you're not nearly as stupid as you sound," he casually remarked once he had settled comfortably against the railing. He leaned against the railing alongside her, gazing at the two corpses.

She frowned, something hidden by her dark cowl. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean that you sound like an idiot. It's your voice, all soft and airy. You sound stupid, but you're much cleverer than you look," he continued, glancing up into her angry hazel eyes. "Don't take offense at that, sister. Use it to your advantage."

"Hmmph, I suppose," she replied, trying to sound more threatening and assertive. "I think I hear footsteps. It's probably more bandits coming to investigate all the noise."

"Don't bother trying that, you just sound ridiculous. Oh, and you're right. It's probably more of them. I think you could probably pick them all off from here when they come running across the bridge. Ten septims says you can't knock them off into the water with those damned fireballs."

"Watch me."

* * *

It just wasn't the same without her.

Galmar tumbled into bed after another long, exhausting day, still unconsciously reaching out towards Solveig's side of the bed, letting out a groan when it was empty yet again. He had been patiently, anxiously waiting for her to return, often stopping by the training yard, or checking her alchemy laboratory to see if she was there, but she never was. If he was to be perfectly honest with himself, he would admit that she was likely dead, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to seriously consider the possibility. He rolled over, resting his head on her pillow, surprised, and pleased, to find that her scent still lingered.

He inhaled, savoring the scent of dried lavender and dragon's tongue, the crisp, salty smell of sea spray, and the headiness of a wood burning fire. Snowberry jumping up onto the bed and settling down with a whine jerked him out of his stupor. The wolf settled down with yet another soft whine, and Galmar reached out to lazily scratch him behind the ears.

"I miss her too, pup."

* * *

"You do have a plan, don't you?" Nazir asked, looking over to inspect his companion. They had changed out of their Brotherhood gear in order to avoid suspicion, and it had allowed him to fully take in her appearance. She had long, wavy blonde hair, bright hazel eyes, soft, full lips, and ample curves that were in all the right places. He was less chafed about the fact that Astrid had sent him with Solveig than he had initially been.

"Yes, I do. Remember, we're merchants, just travelling through Falkreath. We sell potions. I grew up with Siddgeir, remember? You do remember I told you that, right?"

He frowned. She probably had told him, but when she was changing out of her armor, he had been more than a little bit distracted. "Of course," he scoffed. "You think he's going to let us walk right in?"

"Yes. We have a…a history. I'll leave it at that. Come on, if we hurry, we can make it to Falkreath before too long."

* * *

Solveig pushed open the door that led into the Jarl's longhouse, eyes scanning the interior. A roaring, crackling fire was ablaze in the large fire pit in the center of the room, and as she squinted through the dusty, smoky air, she spotted a lone figure sitting at the table, swilling back mead. Siddgeir.

"My Jarl," she called out, fingers nervously slipping into the small pouch at her side, touching the small bottle of poison to ensure that it was still there before clutching it tightly in one hand. "That is what I call you know, isn't it? Or do you make exceptions for old friends?" she asked, grimacing at the last word.

The man at the table glanced up, his face breaking into a smile. "Oh, lovely Solveig. It's been far, far too long since we've last seen each other," he said, setting down his bottle of mead before rising to his feet. He held his arms out for an embrace, and while his back was to the table, she quickly peeked over his shoulder and dumped the poison into his drink. He continued holding onto her, the close contact making her uncomfortable. "Perhaps you and I should get reacquainted, hmm? If your friend doesn't mind, that is. Although, I can't say I give a fuck if he does or not," he slurred, gesturing to Nazir.

"Of course, that would be absolutely delightful," she said with a slight cringe, taking his arm. _Please, please let it work quickly._

* * *

Solveig dumped several bottles of mead in the fire pit, grateful that no one else was up and about in the early hours of the morning. She deposited them on the table before heading towards Siddgeir's room, closing the door behind her.

"Slit his throat and be done with it, that's what I would do," grumbled Nazir, who was currently watching the slowly dying Jarl. "This is taking too damn long."

She shook her head. "Too messy, and it would be too obvious. I've worked damn hard to make sure it looked like he drank himself to death," she replied, pulling a chair up alongside the bed. "I don't want anyone to come after the Brotherhood."

He sunk down further in his chair, knowing full well she was right. The death of a Jarl was something most took note of, and it wouldn't do to have it be an obvious assassination. "Well, how much longer then?"

Before Solveig could reply, Siddgeir's eyes fluttered open, and after searching the room, they fell upon her with an accusing stare. "You…you did something to me," he croaked, the few words draining him.

"Shh, shh," she whispered, brushing a strand of black hair out of his eyes. _Should I tell him about his…? No, no. It's best if he never knows, even right before death._ "It will all be over soon."

They watched quietly as his breathing became slower, more labored, and after another ten minutes had passed, his chest stopped moving completely. Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath was dead.

* * *

Astrid smiled at her, looking very much like a proud, doting mother. "Nazir tells me that you did wonderfully," she gushed, reaching out to hug Solveig. "It would be my pleasure, and my honor, to welcome you to the family, dearest. What do you say?"

Solveig didn't hesitate. "I would love that, Astrid. Where is everyone else?"

"Unfortunately, they're all out on jobs. I know they'll love you. If you linger for a few days, I'm sure you'll meet them all."

She shook her head. "Perhaps another time," she said, accepting another hug from Astrid. "I do need to get back to Windhelm, though."

As Solveig made to leave, Astrid reached out to grab her arm. "One last thing, love. How was it," she asked, her voice dropping to a low, excited whisper. "How did it feel?"

Solveig paused, taking in the beautiful, blonde woman's enthusiastic eyes, watching as her pupils slowly dilated. She hadn't relished the idea of Siddgeir's death, but she was pleased when she considered the fact that he would no longer be able to destroy more lives and bring more harm to Falkreath. Smiling, she spoke.

"Good."

* * *

When Galmar stepped through the door into his bedroom, at first he thought he was hallucinating, and simply imagining that she had returned. Yet, there she was, flesh and blood, sitting at the small table in their room, lazily munching an apple as though she hadn't even been gone for a day.

"Galmar," she began, setting the piece of fruit down. She stood, wiping her hands on her dress, closing the distance between them. "I'm so sorry, I should have sent you a message, but I didn't know if it would be wise."

"Weeks," he growled, reaching out to grab her arms, squeezing much tighter than he probably should have. "You've been gone for weeks, Sol, without so much as even a gods-damned peep about where you were. I've…I've," he trailed off, stopping uncertainly. He sighed, his grip slackening. "I've been worried. I've missed you," he admitted, his final sentence coming out in a mumble.

A wide grin broke out across her face, and she wrapped her arms around his waist to pull him close. "I've missed you too. I'm sorry I was gone for so long, it turns out the Dark Brotherhood wanted to recruit me. That's all."

He pulled away from her, his brow creasing as he stared at her incredulously. "The Dark Brotherhood recruited you, and _that's all_?"

Solveig set to work unbuttoning his shirt, pausing to stand on her tiptoes and plant a kiss on the underside of his jaw. "Can we speak more about this later? I'm tired, and as I've mentioned, I missed you. I'd like to get reacquainted," she murmured, tossing his shirt aside.

"I suppose," he gruffly agreed, hands wandering down her sides. As much as he wanted to know more about what exactly had happened, the sensation of her fingers ghosting across his chest had quickly made sitting around and talking a second priority. "No more patrols for you, though," he muttered, stopping suddenly, wondering if it was a good time to bring up something he had been carefully considering in her absence. "I'd like us to have a child. What do you say to a little son?"

He hadn't expected her to pull away, a pained expression on her face. She sighed, staring despondently on down at the floor as she settled down on the edge of the bed. Seeing Siddgeir back in Falkreath, and the mere suggestion had stirred up far too many memories and emotions. Solveig looked back up at him, surprised to see concern on his face. _You might as well tell him now; he's going to find out sooner or later._

She gnawed on her lip silently for a few seconds, and Galmar was left wondering if she had no desire to have children, or if she was perhaps barren. Finally, after taking a deep, shaky breath, she spoke.

"Galmar, I…I already have a son."

* * *

_A/N: There you have it! I initially was going to split this up into two chapters, but I decided to do it all in one go. All kinds of drama going down in this chapter, eh? Perhaps the biggest drama bomb is that she has a son! Think he'll reappear at some point? Well, you'll find out in a week from now. :)_

_Thank you so much for reading. If you enjoy the Thieves Guild, check out my story Ascension for lots of Mercer Frey, sexy Brynjolf, a crazy, skooma-addled Dragonborn, and thieving goodness._


	16. Many Talks

Galmar simply stared at her, eyes widening in shock as his mind frantically sought to comprehend what she had just told him. _I already have a son. I already have a son._ He wasn't quite certain of what he had expected her to say, but it most definitely wasn't that she already had a child. After a few, painfully long and uncomfortable seconds of silence, he cleared his throat and spoke.

"What?" he asked gruffly. His voice came out harsh, brusque and reproachful, despite all attempts to remain level-headed and composed. He didn't want to sound angry, because he wasn't. Despite those attempts, he was having trouble. "You have a son, and you didn't tell me? Where is he?"

"J-just let me start from the beginning," Solveig replied, her voice wavering slightly. She gave him a weak smile as she patted the empty space next to her. "Sit down and I'll tell you everything. Please, try not to pass judgment."

He settled down next to her, his piercing blue eyes never leaving her form as he waited patiently, anxious to learn about the child he never knew she had. She let out a long exhale, reaching up to fiddle with the ends of her hair, twirling a long strand around one slim finger. "I used to be in a relationship with Siddgeir. We grew up together, we were friends, and ended up getting intimately involved. It continued even after I went to the College. We were actually engaged," she said, letting out another sigh as she cast her eyes downward. "I don't think I ever told you that, did I?"

"No, you didn't," he grumbled, reaching up to scratch his neck, letting out a tiny, derisive snort. "No wonder, either. Siddgeir's a lazy, corrupt sack of shit, at least from what I've heard about him. I'd have kept it to myself, too. Don't blame ya one damn bit."

Solveig looked up briefly, giving him a scathing glare that managed to unsettle him ever so slightly. "I thought I asked you not to judge me. You don't think I know that he's an absolutely wretched man? I do, so thank you for reminding me of it," she groaned, surprising him with her slightly biting tone. "Are you done reminding me of poor choices that I made in the past? May I continue now?"

He nodded, and Solveig was surprised to see that he looked a bit sheepish. "Thank you. Now, as I was saying. We were…involved, well, up until the point that I realized that he was an awful fuckwit, and I finally worked up the courage to end things between us. Before you ask how long it took for me to figure it out that he was poison, it was far too long. During one of my visits back home to Falkreath, I ended things. Unfortunately, I didn't end things before I had gotten pregnant. I found out that I was with child when I got back to the College of Winterhold."

"Does Siddgeir know?"

She leaned forward, propping her chin on her balled up fists, staring into the distance before answering. "No. Not that it matters now, since he's dead."

Galmar cocked an eyebrow, sucking air in through clenched teeth. "Dead? What do you mean he's dead?"

"Oh, right," she said disinterestedly as she gave a little dismissive wave, still gazing off into space. "When the Brotherhood took me, they wanted me to fulfill a contract. He, along with some bandits in some little mine, was the contract. He's dead now. You should probably tell Jarl Ulfric, he'll want to know, especially since Dengeir is probably going to be Jarl again. He was a firm supporter of the Stormcloaks, correct? But," she said, pausing to grab his forearm as he made to stand. "Not right now. There's more to say."

He slowly lowered himself back down onto the bed, watching her warily. "You killed a Jarl?" he asked incredulously, stunned by the news. "That was your first contract?"

"Yes," she replied simply, twisting her hands together. "Now, I'd really like to get back to finishing up talking about my son, if you don't mind. At this rate, we'll be here until the end of an age," she added, giving a nervous laugh.

He gave a slight nod, and she went on once more. "No, Siddgeir didn't know. His family never knew of it either, and I'd like to keep it that way. As soon as I knew, I decided that I didn't want him to know. I didn't want any risk of any of them taking him away. I was afraid he'd end up as awful as his father. I couldn't keep him, though. I was young, unmarried, and I hadn't a septim to my name. I couldn't raise him, not on my own. Besides, the College wasn't the best environment to raise a child in. So," she said, pausing to take a deep breath. "I gave him up, left him at Honorhall Orphanage in Riften, hoping he'd have a good life. Although, from what I've heard of the orphanage, that likely didn't happen. He probably would have been better off with Siddgeir, or even that paranoid fool of an uncle that he has," she said, her voice cracking as she reached up to wipe away at her damp cheeks.

"What was his name?" Galmar asked quietly. He reached out, gently placing one large hand on her shoulder, surprised to find that she was trembling.

"Jyrik. He'd be about nine years old now," she said, giving him a small smile. "Have you ever read the tale of the Archmage Gaulder? Jyrik was his oldest son. It was one of my favorite stories when I was a little girl. I always found myself wishing that I could have read it to him myself."

He cocked an eyebrow even higher, reflecting on the name Jyrik, trying to recall what he could about that particular story. Her voice trembled, and before he could respond, he was interrupted by the loud, choking sob that escaped her lips, her body now shaking more violently. "You know, there's still the chance," he finally said, moving his arm so that it was around her shoulders. "I've heard rumors that the woman who's in charge doesn't allow adoptions. He could still be there. We'll find him."

"Wh-what?" she asked, looking up at him with wide eyes. "Are you serious?"

"Why not?" he replied, considering the possibility. He had always desired a son, and he soon found himself drifting away into a little daydream, excited as the prospect of teaching the lad how to wield a blade or a bow, relishing the thought of turning him into a warrior. "We could give him a good life here. We'll go to Riften, you and I."

"Do you really mean that?"

"Of course I do," he responded gruffly, shifting so that he was closer to her. "I'm not a liar. Does your brother know about this? About his nephew?"

She frowned, quietly gnawing on the twisted strand of hair that she had brought up to her mouth. She finally let the golden strand drop, instead moving on to biting her lip. "No, he doesn't," she finally admitted. "It was a difficult decision, but I decided to keep it from him. I mean, you've seen the way that he reacts to _everything_. I thought I might actually cause his heart to burst. I suppose now is the time to tell him, though. I can't hide it forever."

Galmar grunted. He had known Yrsarald for several years now, and it hadn't taken him long to pick up on the fact that he was an emotionally volatile man, and the slightest thing could quickly shatter the delicate, sensitive state that he seemed to permanently occupy. "Understandable. I've seen him go into a frenzied state when bread's gone bad. When are you going to break the old news to him?"

"Now, I suppose. The sooner I get this over with, the better," she sighed, reluctantly rising to her feet. She wasn't looking forward to his reaction, already bracing herself to deal with a storm of emotions. Leaning down, Solveig pressed a quick kiss to his lips before whispering in his ear, her lips gently brushing against the sensitive lobe. "When I get back, I expect to see you out of that armor."

* * *

Solveig had fully intended to seek out Yrsarald after her conversation with Galmar, but once he had pulled her back down onto the bed and set to work savagely tearing off her clothes and leaving searing, burning kisses all over, that quickly fell on her list of priorities.

"I should probably go and find Yrsarald now," she yawned, delicately twirling her fingers in his grey chest hairs. She sat up and he followed suit, brushing aside her hair, pressing his lips against her bare shoulder. "I'm not looking forward to his reaction. Oh, right. There was something else," she said, pulling the blankets up over her bare chest as she shifted to face him, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks. "You said something about wanting to have a child. Were you serious about that, or no, now that Jyrik is potentially going to be entering our lives?"

He leaned back, staring upwards at the stone ceiling as he contemplated her question. "I was, if you'd be interested, of course. You'd be the one doin' most of the work and such. You'll stop drinking that potion?"

"I will," she replied, stretching as she climbed out of the bed. She grabbed the mage's robes that were lazily draped over the back of a chair, smoothing them down before facing him once more, a small smile on her face. "Of course, I could already be pregnant. I often forget to take that damn potion. Now, where did I put my shoes…" she trailed off, ducking down to look underneath the bed.

_Of course you do. Is there anything you don't forget?_ "I'll see you when you get back. I'm going to talk to the Jarl, now."

Her head poked back above the top of the bed, and she gave him another smile, one that quickly faded. "I'm going to go speak to my brother now. Wish me luck."

* * *

"Oh, praise the Divines you're fine!" Morgina called out, wrapping her arms around Solveig in a crushing hug. She buried her face in the blonde's chest, inhaling deeply. "You smell nice. I've missed these, too," she laughed, prodding her chest. "They make a fantastic pillow."

Solveig chuckled, gently peeling her partner's arms off of her torso. "I missed you too. We'll talk more after I speak with my brother. I have some good news, and it involves no more patrols. By the way, have you seen Yrsarald around?"

Morgina's eyes lit up at the prospect of no more patrols before she quickly considered Solveig's question, tapping at her chin. "Actually, yes, I have. I think I saw him and that chubby blonde man of his head towards the kitchens. You'll come find me later on, right? I want to know where you were! I thought Galmar was going to tear my face off with his fingernails," she added, her voice dropping to a low whisper. "I've never seen someone's veins in their head throb like his did."

Solveig laughed again, shaking her head. "I'm sure he wouldn't have really done that. I'll find you later, and we'll talk then. I've got plenty to tell you."

* * *

She found Yrsarald exactly where Morgina had surmised he would be, settled at a table with Ralof, happily slurping away at a large bowl of soup. They both looked up at the sound of her approach, and a wide, ear-splitting grin broke out across his face.

"Solveig, you're back!" he cried out, awkwardly clambering over the table's bench, sweeping her up into a tight embrace once he had reached. "I've missed you, and I've, well, we've got some news for you. Galmar and Ralof said you went off to gather some rare ingredients? Did you find what you were looking for?"

Looking over his shoulder towards Ralof, she raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Ralof gave her a smile and mouthed a short, silent sentence to her. _Just go with it._ She nodded before breaking away. "I've missed you too. It's good to see you, Yrsa. I've got something to tell you, too. What's the news?"

Ralof and Yrsarald passed a glance between each other, and her brother finally turned back towards her, his smile somehow even wider. "We're getting married! Ralof asked me about a week ago, and I said yes."

"Oh, Yrsa! That's wonderful!" she gasped, hugging him again. "When's the wedding?"

"A fortnight from now," Ralof responded, leaning against the nearby wall. "I'd figured I'd waited long enough, and I had gotten damn tired of listening to him whine about how jealous he was that you'd gotten married before him."

Yrsarald gave a small gasp of indignation, reaching over to playfully swat at the Nord man. "That's not true! Sol, don't listen to him. You said you had something to tell me as well? What is it?"

She took a deep breath, swallowing hard. _He's so happy, I can't tell him now. Later. I'll tell him later._ Giving him a faint smile, she stood on the tips of her toes to kiss him on the cheek. "It's nothing, never mind. I'll tell you later."

"No, no. Tell us now," he insisted, grabbing her hand.

_Might as well just get this over with, be done with it._ Taking a deep breath, she looked up at him, her heart racing as she strove to find the right words. "Yrsarald," she began, gently clasping one of his hands between hers. "I'm going to be heading to Riften a little early. I need to go to Honorhall Orphanage."

He furrowed his brow, tilting his head to one side as he stared at her, a puzzled expression forming on his face. "Honorhall? What's there?"

"Yrsarald, I have a son. You have a nephew."

He stared at her, frozen for a few seconds, before the chipper smile gradually faded away, and he was left with a scornful frown. "No, you don't. You don't have a son."

"Yes, I do. I-I gave him up about ten years ago. I never told you, and I'm sorry. I should have. I'm not lying to you about this."

"Damn right you should have!" he snapped, yanking his hand away from hers. He scowled at her silently for a few seconds before his eyes widened and he whipped around, pointing an accusing finger at Ralof. "You," he hissed, his hand trembling. "You're the father, aren't you? You and Solveig slept together. Y-you're its uncle father!"

Solveig reached out, grabbing onto his shoulder. "Yrsa, no! It's not Ralof's. If you'd please just listen, I'll tell you—"

"I don't want to even look at you, much less speak to you right now. How could you keep something like this away from me, your only brother?" he admonished, shaking his head.

"Yrsa, please," she begged tearfully, tightening her grip on him. "You don't think this is hard on me, too? Please, just listen."

He quickly jerked away, turning back to look at her with fury in his eyes. "I-I don't want to hear this right now! Just leave me alone," he grumbled, storming away. Ralof and Solveig both watching him leave, letting out sighs once his heavy, angry footsteps had faded away.

"I'm sorry," Solveig said, running her hands down over her face. "I really shouldn't have told him now. I'm sorry for ruining the happiness over your engagement."

Ralof shrugged, giving her a dismissive wave as he took a bite of a piece of bread. "It's fine, it really is. If he didn't get angry about that, then he'd just have a tantrum once he discovered that I broke his favorite cup."

"He has a favorite cup?"

"He does. Well, he did."

She gave a weary laugh, shaking her head. "He's a strange man."

"Strange, indeed. I think it runs in the family."

* * *

Galmar ran the worn rag over the edge of the Dwarven battleaxe's blade one final time, inspecting it in the dim light from the nearby flickering candle. "You can come down," he finally said, clearing his throat. "I know you're up there."

Solveig gave a sigh and lowered herself down from the top of the cabinet in the war room, pulling off her dark cowl once she had firmly planted both feet on the floor. "I'm not getting any better?" she asked with a sigh, sliding into the chair next to him. She rested her head on his shoulder with another groan; her hazel eyes watching him clean his weapons. "I was told to work on my sneaking."

"Nope, you breathe too damn loud. You sounded like a little wheezing skeever up there."

She instinctively covered her nose before tossing her black cowl onto the table. "It'll get better with time, I suppose. I just have to practice."

"Yep."

"You know," she whispered coyly, fingers beginning to fiddle with the buckles and straps on the side of his armor. "There's something that can make me breathe even louder."

His hand stopped, and he didn't resist as she gently pulled the battleaxe out of his hands. "Gods," she gasped, muscles straining as she heaved the heavy weapon onto the table, setting it down with a clatter. "How much does that thing weigh?"

He snorted, tossing the dirty rag on top of it. "Was that what you were talking about when you said something could make you breathe heavier? Just picking up a weapon, instead of conjuring up some fruity little magical nonsense?"

"Hey," she huffed, feeling slightly indignant as she picked up the rag, flicking the end at him. "It is not nonsense. You know what I was talking about, and you just missed your chance," she sniffed, crossing her arms as she turned away. "I'm leaving now."

"Oh, don't be like that," he grumbled, sighing to himself as he watched her sashay out of the war room in her tantalizingly tight Brotherhood armor. "Eh, she'll come around," he muttered to himself, picking up the small square of fabric and another weapon, getting back to work.

* * *

Solveig ambled down the hallway towards Yrsarald and Ralof's room after leaving Galmar behind, hoping her brother would be in there and he would be willing to talk. It had been three days since she had told him about his nephew, and he had only responded with smoldering glares, ferocious scowls, and he had even hissed at her once, all refusing while refusing to converse on the matter.

She peeked into his room, sighing when she was met with an empty bedroom. He wasn't there.

Tucking her cowl under her arm, she turned, making a straight shot across the hallway to her and Galmar's room, pulling the door open. She shut it behind her, freezing when she heard a low, cheerful humming coming from her right. Turning, she readied a spell in her left palm, ready to attack. She relaxed when she saw that it was a little girl, sitting contentedly in at the small table, swinging her legs back and forth.

"I'm sorry, but are you lost?"

The girl looked up, giving Solveig a wide smile, her dark eyes examining the Nord woman, raking over her form. "Oh, you must be Solveig! You're even prettier than Astrid said you were. It's so nice to meet you," she said enthusiastically, standing up, greeting her with a wide, mischievous smile. "I'm Babette."

* * *

_A/N: Ah, so there you have it! I'm sorry this chapter is so delayed. I was experiencing some major Skyrim burnout (didn't even know that was possible!) and I had some major ideas for Ascension that I wanted to get down before I forgot them all and lost the inspiration. This story should be back on track, a new chapter up every Monday. Once again, sorry to keep you all waiting. I hope you enjoyed it, and you can look forward to a new chapter of Ascension up on Tuesday. :)_


End file.
